THE  ETERNAL  MAGDALENE 
ROBERT  H.  MCLAUGHLIN 


THE  ETERNAL 
MAGDALENE 

By  ROBERT    H.    McLAUGHLIN 

NEW  YORK 
THE    MACAULAY    COMPANY 

Copyright,  1915, 

GZOKCE  H.   DORAN   COMPANS 


M.  N.  M., 


7VH»SE  SWIFT  COMPASSION  FOR  THE  UNFORTUNATE, 

AND  WHOSE  BROAD  TOLERANCE  OF  THE  SINS 

THAT  FOLLOW  IN  MISFORTUNE'S  WAKE, 

ARE  REFLECTED  UPON  MANY  OF 

ITS  PAGES;  THIS  VOLUME 

IS   LOVINGLY 

INSCRIBED. 


2136947 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.   THE  HUNTING  OF  THE  WOMAN        -               -               •    J          -  II 

H.   THE  UPRIGHT  MAN                                 -               -   ^  31 

in.   YOUNG  LOVE  AT  SPRING     -               -               -               -  52 

IV.   THE  BITTERNESS  OF  FATHER-LOVE                -               -  62 

V.   THE  WOMAN  WHO  DID  NOT  SMILE                  -               -  78 

VI.   THE  CURSE               -               -               -               -               -  QO 

VII.   THE  STORM-CLOUD                                 ....  105 

Vm.   A  PRIESTESS  OF  APHRODITE  IN  A  LIMOUSINE           -               -  123 

IX.   GRAY  THREADS  OF  A  SPIDER-WEB                  -               -               -  142 

X.  THE  YOUNG  GENERATION                   ....  ^O 

XI.  THE  MOTH  AND  THE  FLAME              ....  179 

XH.   THE  BLACK  DAYS  -                                ....  jgi; 

Xm.   THE  GIRL  WHO  HAD  BEEN  PROTECTED         -               -               -  211 

XIV.   A  SINNER?                ......  227 

XV.   THE  PRODIGAL  DAUGHTER                 ....  243 

XVI.   THE  REFORM  BOOMERANG                 ....  260 

xvn.  "HE  THAT  is  WITHOUT  SIN "-          -  272 

XVm.  IN  A  MYSTERIOUS  WAY       .....  286 


THE  ETERNAL  MAGDALENE 


CHAPTER  I 

THE   HUNTING   OF   THE   WOMAN 

JOHN  BELLAMY  had  been  connected  with  the  Star 
in  some  editorial  capacity  or  other  for  nearly  nine 
years.  When  he  graduated  from  High  School  at  the  age 
of  eighteen,  it  had  been  his  ambition  to  go  to  college,  but 
his  father  had  died  suddenly  during  the  vacation  which 
had  followed  his  commencement,  and  six  months  later, 
his  mother,  who  had  been  unable  to  withstand  the  shock 
of  her  husband's  death,  succumbed,  partly  of  a  broken 
heart,  partly  of  ill-health.  Bellamy  was  then  thrown  on 
his  own  resources ;  his  ambition  was  swallowed  up  in  the 
necessity  of  making  his  own  living.  Duncan  Harrison, 
the  owner  and  proprietor  of  the  largest  and  most  influen- 
tial newspaper  in  the  city  where  Bellamy  lived,  had  been 
an  old  and  intimate  friend  of  Bellamy's  father,  and  it 
was  natural  that  he  should  have  taken  the  young  man 
under  his  protection  and  made  a  place  for  him  on  the 
staff  of  his  publication. 

At  first  Bellamy  had  chafed  under  the  routine,  for  it 
was  not  what  he  had  planned  for  himself.  But,  as  the 
years  went  by,  the  great  newspaper  game,  with  its 
struggles  and  its  hardships,  its  interests  and  its  rewards, 

II 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

had  taken  hold  of  him  and  fired  his  imagination.  He 
came  in  touch  with  the  undercurrents  of  life;  the  veil  of 
hypocrisy  was  snatched  from  the  external  manifestations 
of  existence ;  and  Bellamy  could  look  deep  into  the  heart 
of  the  world,  its  high  hopes  and  aspirations,  its  sordid- 
ness  and  its  defeats,  its  struggles  and  achievements. 
More  and  more  he  felt  that  he  was  penetrating  to  the 
very  heart  of  all  human  endeavour.  Gradually  he  had 
acquired  a  truer  perspective  of  things.  He  saw  beneath 
the  surface.  And  this  vision,  coupled  with  the  con- 
stant battle  which  one  day  would  bring  success,  an- 
other day  defeat,  gave  a  new  colour  and  meaning  to  his 
life. 

Many  men,  caught  in  the  vortex  of  news-gathering, 
become  cynical,  but  in  the  case  of  Bellamy  this  did  not 
happen.  To  the  contrary,  that  youthful  buoyancy  which 
had  always  been  a  part  of  his  nature,  became  accentuated. 
His  sympathies  were  intensified,  and,  far  from  losing  that 
point  of  view  which  with  him  occasionally  approached 
near  the  brink  of  sentimentality,  he  grew  more  tolerant 
of  the  human  struggle. 

His  mind  was  quick  and  probing.  He  had  rarely  at- 
tached moral  values  to  people's  actions,  but  unconsciously 
had  made  allowances  for  the  weaknesses  which  com- 
panioned even  the  strongest  natures.  He  weighed  care- 
fully all  the  problems  which  presented  themselves  to  him, 
gave  few  hasty  judgments,  and  developed  an  almost 
divine  leniency  toward  people  and  their  actions.  It  was 
not  lack  of  strength ;  rather  was  his  attitude  the  result  of 
an  inherent  and  deep  understanding — an  understanding 
made  deeper  by  the  organisation  of  his  new  environment. 
Then,  again,  there  was  a  certain  congenial  element  in 
the  mechanism  of  his  new  line  of  endeavour.  He  had 

12 


The  Hunting  of  the  Woman 

always  beea  fond  of  writing.  The  instinct  of  visual 
thought  had,  from  his  earliest  infancy,  been  part  of 
him. 

At  first  he  kad  taken  little  interest  in  his  work  be- 
cause his  aspirations  had  been  so  passionate  that  he  un- 
consciously revolted  against  the  necessity  of  serving  a 
tedious  apprenticeship.  In  the  beginning  he  had  been 
given  literary  criticisms  to  do.  He  had  had  to  rewrite 
and  elaborate  other  men's  stories;  he  had  had  to  build 
up  the  flesh  of  narrative  structures  which  at  the  last 
moment  had  come  over  the  wires.  But  after  a  few 
years  of  such  tasks  he  had  been  placed  on  the  City 
Editor's  staff  and  given  assignments  along  with  the 
other  men  whose  business  it  was  to  go  forth  at  a  mo- 
ment's notice  and  develop  a  story  from  a  slender  thread 
of  suggestion. 

Bellamy's  maimer  was  pleasing,  his  imagination  active, 
his  mind  precise,  and  he  had  that  inborn  quality  which 
animates  all  good  writers  for  daily  papers — a  news 
sense.  At  this  time  he  was  only  a  "cub,"  and  his  assign- 
ments were  not  important,  but  his  attitude  was  always 
fresh  and  original,  and  his  stories  had  the  charm  of  won- 
derment as  of  a  child  who  looks  for  the  first  time  upon 
the  world.  Instinctively  he  went  to  the  heart  of  his 
story ;  he  was  able  to  eliminate  the  unimportant  and  un- 
essential ;  and  it  was  not  long  before  he  was  given  more 
valuable  assignments. 

In  the  years  following  his  first  real  taste  of  newspaper 
life  he  had  covered  the  City  Hall,  the  Court  House,  the 
Police  Coarts,  and  at  the  end  of  his  seventh  year  with 
the  paper  he  was  its  chief  political  writer.  But  politics 
did  not  satisfy  his  eager  appetite,  and  gradually  he  had 
worked  himself  into  special  stories  which  by  their  dra- 

13 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

matic  simplicity,  their  colour,  their  true  sense  of  balance 
and  their  descriptive  brilliancy,  had  opened  the  eyes 
of  Duncan  Harrison  to  the  fact  that  he  was  in  posses- 
sion of  one  of  the  best  reporters  in  the  country. 

For  two  years  thereafter  Bellamy  was  called  upon  to 
cover  every  important  case  which  found  its  way  into 
the  office.  He  wrote  three-fourths  of  the  feature  stories 
for  the  Star,  and  whenever  there  was  an  assignment 
which  required  unusual  perspicacity  and  intelligent  treat- 
ment, he  was  chosen  for  it. 

It  was  for  this  reason  that,  for  a  week  past,  Bellamy's 
time  had  been  given  over  to  writing  up  all- the  develop- 
ments of  the  moral  campaign  which  now  occupied  the 
foremost  place  in  the  interest  of  the  quarter  of  a  million 
inhabitants  of  the  city. 

For  over  a  year  Edenburg,  like  many  other  cities  of 
its  size  and  character,  had  been  in  a  state  of  agitation 
over  its  morals.  When  the  new  reform  administration 
had  been  inaugurated  into  office,  the  "cleaning  up"  of 
the  Tenderloin  had  been  promised.  The  local  papers, 
avid  for  sensation  and  inspired  more  by  a  desire  for 
circulation  gains  than  by  the  spirit  of  cleanliness,  had 
devoted  considerable  space  to  the  question.  Statistics 
were  bandied  about  freely.  Photographs  of  certain 
quarters  of  the  city,  which  had  heretofore  been  a  closed 
book  to  the  great  majority  of  the  population,  were  dis- 
played on  front  pages.  Politicians  were  interviewed. 
Their  private  actions  were  investigated  and  brazenly 
printed  as  news.  The  local  clergymen,  seeing  a  new 
field  of  endeavour  opening  up  to  them,  founded  their  ser- 
mons on  texts  whose  relevancy  to  the  existing  conditions 
was  obvious,  while  some  of  the  more  radical  and  out- 
spoken ministers  painted  lurid  pictures  each  Sunday 


The  Hunting  of  the  Woman 

morning  of  the  vice  which  was  being  condoned  by  the 
police. 

The  moral  wave  had  grown  and  gathered  momentum; 
accusations  were  hurled  back  and  forth;  all  the  details 
of  civic  sordidness  and  squalor  became  the  familiar 
property  of  the  man  in  the  street.  Investigating  com- 
mittees were  formed.  The  names  of  men  prominent  in 
business  life  were  connected  with  the  crusade.  Meet- 
ings were  held  and  reports  read.  Quickly  conceived  and 
fantastic  ordinances  were  presented  to  the  City  Council, 
and  back  of  them  were  threats  and  promises. 

Withal  the  campaign  had  made  little  headway.  The 
mud  in  the  spring  had  been  stirred  up,  but  it  had  not 
been  eliminated.  Influences  and  counter-influences  were 
at  work ;  the  matter  became  almost  inextricably  involved, 
and  the  net  results  were  meagre.  The  trouble  lay  in  the 
fact  that  there  was  no  dominating  personality,  no  leader 
who  could  point  the  way,  no  man  strong  enough  to 
carry  forward  to  a  conclusion  the  many  activities  which 
had  been  set  in  motion.  To  be  sure,  there  were  in  the 
city  certain  men  of  powerful  influence  who  perhaps 
could  accomplish  what  the  reformers  demanded,  but 
these  men  hesitated  on  the  edge  of  final  action.  Their 
other  interests  intervened;  and  so  the  tumult  went  on 
with  little  or  no  definite  achievement. 

It  was  at  this  time,  when  the  public  interest  and  ex- 
citement was  at  its  height,  that  Elijah  Bradshaw  pro- 
posed the  hiring  of  a  nationally  famous  professional  re- 
former to  gather  up  the  loose  ends  of  their  work  and  to 
bring  about  a  consummation.  At  one  of  the  meetings 
of  which  he  was  chairman,  he  spoke  eloquently  of  the 
need  of  such  a  man  as  the  Reverend  James  Gleason, 
an  evangelist  whose  life  work  it  was  to  go  from  city 

15 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

to  city,  takes  notes  of  the  local  conditions,  and  plan  a 
practical  campaign  which  would  result  in  the  purifica- 
tion which  that  city  needed. 

Jimmy  Gleason,  as  he  was  called  by  erery  one,  was 
not  merely  a  theorist.  He  had  made  the  study  of  munici- 
pal vice  his  profession,  and  he  had  perfected  methods 
for  its  elimination  which  had  produced  practical  results 
in  every  city  which  had  secured  his  services.  He  was 
a  vulgar  man  and  uneducated,  but  he  was  possessed  of 
the  gift  of  simple  and  compelling  oratory,  of  picturesque 
and  insinuating  diction.  He  knew  all  the  ramifications, 
legal  and  psychological,  which  were  demanded  by  his 
profession.  In  the  newspapers  he  had  received  as  much 
publicity  as  any  other  public  citizen  in  the  United  States. 
He  was  a  clever  advertiser,  a  man  who  profoundly 
knew  his  public,  and  though  his  methods  were  such 
that  he  had  made  many  enemies  among  the  more  con- 
servative reformers,  in  point  of  results  he  had  no  com- 
petitor in  his  field.  His  price  was  high,  but  that  price 
had  grown  out  of  his  own  achievement.  Where  other 
men  failed  he  succeeded. 

It  was  obvious  that  such  a  man  as  Jimmy  Gleason  was 
needed  in  Edenburg  to  complete  the  work  already  begun 
by  the  local  reformers,  and  there  was  little  hesitancy  on 
the  part  of  the  other  influential  citizens  in  agreeing  to 
send  for  him,  once  Elijah  Bradshaw  had  suggested  it 
and  had  agreed  to  guarantee  the  enterprise  financially. 

Bradshaw  was  a  man  who  commanded  the  respect  of 
all  who  knew  him,  and  there  were  few  in  Edenburg  who 
did  not.  He  had  lived  in  the  city  all  his  life.  He  was  a 
leader  in  all  civic  and  commercial  undertakings.  Eden- 
burg in  fact  owed  much  to  Bradshaw.  He  was  one  of 
its  few  millionaires,  and  he  had  made  his  money  through 
16 


The  Hunting  of  the  Woman 

honesty  and  hard  work  and  business  acumen.  The  in- 
terests of  the  city  had  always  been  his  personal  interests. 
Tie  had  given  much  to  charity.  One  of  the  largest 
parks  in  Edenburg  was  Bradshaw's  donation,  and  had 
been  named  after  him.  His  family  was  prominent  in 
the  social  life  of  the  city.  He  was  the  head  of  the  Board 
of  Trustees  of  Edenburg's  largest  church.  His  life  had 
been  exemplary,  and  he  had  come  to  be  looked  upon 
as  one  of  the  founders  of  the  city's  prosperity.  He  had 
never  run  for  office,  although  his  success  politically 
would  have  been  assured.  He  contented  himself  with 
a  semi-private  life ;  and  yet,  despite  his  refusal  to  accept 
important  political  nominations,  the  people  of  Edenburg 
felt  that  they  owed  as  much  to  him  as  if  he  had  actively 
allied  himself  with  its  government. 

It  was  not  therefore  inconsistent  with  his  public- 
spirited  attitude  and  his  generosity  that  he  alone  should 
have  offered  to  shoulder  the  entire  financial  responsibili- 
ties of  carrying  out  on  a  big  scale  this  new  plan  of  re- 
form, and  of  making  it  possible  for  the  city  to  have  the 
one  man  in  America  who  was  able  to  do  the  work  which 
had  now  superseded  all  other  local  affairs  in  point  of 
interest. 

Jimmy  Gleason,  as  a  direct  result  of  Elijah  Bradshaw's 
suggestion,  had  been  in  Edenburg  for  a  week,  and  his 
whirlwind  campaign  against  the  evils  in  that  city  was 
well  under  way.  Because  of  the  spectacular  value  of 
the  campaign  and  because  of  the  prominent  men  of  the 
Bradshaw  type  who  were  back  of  it,  the  newspapers  were 
lending  every  effort  to  put  it  through  to  a  successful 
conclusion.  Bellamy  had  attended  all  the  meetings  at 
the  Tabernacle,  had  written  columns  upon  columns  of 
publicity,  had  taken  into  consideration  its  human  side 

17 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

and  had  found  and  made  many  intimate  stories  of  seem- 
ingly insignificant  details  which  had  been  overlooked  by 
his  less  imaginative  and  more  cynical  confreres. 

Gleason  had  not  confined  himself  entirely  to  preach- 
ments and  exhortations.  Already  he  had  begun  work 
on  the  more  practical  side  of  his  crusade.  He  had  de- 
manded that  the  police  give  him  assistance  in  closing 
up  the  houses  of  ill  fame  against  which  his  slangy  philip- 
pics had  been  hurled.  Behind  these  raids  was  the  influ- 
ence of  the  newspapers  and  of  those  citizens  who  gov- 
erned public  opinion.  The  police,  as  always,  were  reluc- 
tant to  carry  out  these  drastic  measures,  but  the  pressure 
behind  the  demands  was  so  strong  that  they  had  no  alter- 
native. Already  two  of  the  best-known  Tenderloin  es- 
tablishments had  been  temporarily  closed.  The  women 
had  been  taken  into  court  and  fined.  The  lessees  of  the 
houses  had  been  dispossessed.  Gleason  himself  had  led 
the  raids,  and  Bellamy  had  witnessed  them  at  the  evan- 
gelist's side.  The  young  reporter  had  made  little  per- 
sonal comment  on  the  affair,  but  his  stories  of  the  epi- 
sodes had  been  such  that  both  Gleason  and  Bradshaw, 
as  well  as  Duncan  Harrison,  had  been  more  than  well 
pleased. 

On  a  night  in  late  October,  eight  days  after  Jimmy 
Gleason  had  come  to  Edenburg,  Bellamy  sat  at  his  desk 
in  the  Star  office  preparing  a  special  feature  story  for 
the  following  Sunday  edition.  It  was  the  first  night 
since  the  vice  crusade  had  started  that  he  had  not  at- 
tended the  meeting  at  the  Tabernacle.  The  first  cold 
breath  of  winter  was  in  the  air.  A  gusty  wind  had 
arisen  earlier  in  the  evening,  and  along  the  side  streets 
where  there  were  still  trees  to  mark  the  rapidly  passing 
youth  of  the  city,  the  dry  leaves  were  scurrying  about. 
18 


The  Hunting  of  the  Woman 

All   day  the  sky   had   been   overcast.     A   disconsolate 
autumn  bleakness  had  settled  over  the  city. 

When  Bellamy  had  finished  his  story  he  took  it  into 
Duncan  Harrison's  office  and  laid  it  on  the  desk. 

The  older  man  looked  up. 

"I  was  about  to  send  for  you,  John,"  he  said  in  the 
quick  staccato  voice  which  had  been  his  great  asset  in 
making  men  obey  his  orders.  "I've  just  received  word 
from  the  Chief  that  Blanche  Dumond's  house  is  going  to 
be  pulled  to-night.  You  know  the  old  girl — a  picturesque 
character.  There  ought  to  be  a  good  story  in  it.  Nobody 
has  been  tipped  off,  and  if  things  go  through  smoothly 
it'll  be  a  big  haul.  You'd  better  run  over  to  Headquar- 
ters and  go  with  the  boys  personally.  Get  your  story, 
and  taxi  back  to  the  office.  We  ought  to  have  two 
columns  on  it.  There'll  be  a  photographer  there,  and 
we'll  have  a  three-column  lay-out.  Write  a  banner 
head  yourself  and  shoot  the  story  down  not  later  than 
one." 

"I'm  on,"  Bellamy  replied  breezily,  "although,  to  tell 
you  the  truth,  I  don't  like  the  whole  business." 

Bellamy  had  reached  the  point  where  he  subordinated 
his  private  beliefs  and  prejudices  to  the  policy  of  his 
paper.  His  loyalty  to  his  publication  and  the  public  was 
unassailable,  and  although  his  experiences  as  a  news- 
gatherer  in  all  walks  of  life  had  taught  him  to  see 
things  clearly  and  to  penetrate  to  the  shams  and  hypocrisy 
which  often  underlay  the  real  motives  of  many  benefac- 
tions and  philanthropies,  in  a  crisis  he  would  not  have 
permitted  this  knowledge  to  jeopardise  the  paper  to 
which  he  owed  his  allegiance.  Despite  this  fact  he  was 
frank  and  fearless  in  his  personal  acts  and  beliefs. 

Harrison  looked  at  him  a  little  quizzically. 

19 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

"Well,  neither  do  I  think  much  of  it,"  he  replied. 
"But,  after  all,  we  are  not  critics,  but  chroniclers." 

"Perhaps  so,"  Bellamy  reluctantly  agreed  with  a  smile. 
"Only  I'd  like  a  chance  to  tell  what  I  really  think  of 
the  whole  affair.  Gleason's  too  cocksure.  No  one  can 
tell  whether  he  is  fundamentally  right  or  wrong — it's 
too  big  a  problem  to  be  decided  off-hand.  But  I've  seen 
some  things  happen  here  that  I  know  are  wrong.  The 
theory  back  of  them  is  sound,  no  doubt,  but  human  na- 
ture is  too  complex  to  fit  into  an  ethical  theory." 

"I  know  all  that,  my  boy,"  Harrison  responded  good- 
naturedly,  "but  it's  not  our  funeral.  Our  circulation  this 
last  week  has  taken  a  big  jump." 

"What  would  happen,  sir,"  Bellamy  asked  deferen- 
tially, "if  we  should  take  an  impartial  or — let  us  say — a 
controversial  stand  on  this  business?" 

"What!"  exclaimed  the  older  man.  "With  Bradshaw 
and  the  Citizens'  Committee  and  all  the  ministers  on 
the  other  side  of  the  fence!" 

He  looked  at  Bellamy  amusedly. 

"You  can  write  well  enough,  John,"  he  added  with 
a  touch  of  condescension,  "but  I'm  afraid  you  wouldn't 
be  a  good  business  man.  The  newspaper  game,  from 
the  owner's  standpoint,  consists  in  knowing  how  to  jug- 
gle a  thousand  balls.  Diplomacy  brings  us  our  readers — 
not  opinions.  .  .  .  Now  get  out  of  here  and  do  the  best 
that's  in  you.  It  looks  like  the  biggest  story  so  far  in 
the  crusade!" 

Bellamy  went  to  the  telephone  and  called  up  the  Chief 
of  Police  in  order  to  make  sure  a  seat  would  be  saved 
for  him  in  one  of  the  machines.  Then  he  put  on  his  hat, 
buttoned  his  coat  around  him  tightly,  and  went  down- 
stairs unenthusiastically. 
20 


The  Hunting  of  the  Woman 

As  he  stepped  out  into  the  cold  air  he  met  Arnold 
Macy,  who  was  on  the  point  of  entering  the  building. 
The  young  men  were  close  friends ;  they  had  been  in  the 
same  classes  together  at  school.  It  was  with  Macy  as  a 
room-mate  that  Bellamy  had  planned  his  college  career, 
but  though  Macy  had  possessed  a  measure  of  wealth,  he 
had  preferred  spending  it  in  travel  rather  than  on  a  uni- 
versity training.  When  Bellamy  had  entered  the  em- 
ploy of  the  Star  Macy  had  sailed  for  Europe,  and  for 
five  years  thereafter  the  friendship  of  the  young  men 
had  been  kept  alive  through  correspondence.  During 
that  time  Macy  had  spent  his  money  prodigally  and  in 
the  end  had  been  compelled  to  return  to  America.  Again 
in  Edenburg,  he  had  entered  a  broker's  office,  and  for 
nearly  two  years  had  made  an  excellent  living  as  a  bond 
salesman. 

"I  was  just  coming  up  to  see  you,"  Macy  greeted  Bel- 
lamy cheerily.  "Are  you  busy  to-night?" 

"Always  busy  with  Jimmy  Gleason  in  town,"  the  other 
returned.  "I  am  his  chief  press  agent,  you  know.  There's 
going  to  be  another  raid  to-night,  and  I'm  on  my  way 
over  to  cover  it  now.  If  you've  nothing  better  to  do, 
why  don't  you  come  along  ?" 

"Nothing  I'd  like  better,"  Macy  replied.  "Can  you 
take  me  without  any  trouble?" 

"The  Chief's  my  friend,"  Bellamy  replied  airily.  "He 
has  an  idea  that  if  he  isn't  good  to  me  he  may  lose  his 
next  appointment.  Publicity,  newspaper  influence — all 
that  sort  of  thing.  Why,  he's  even  going  to  take  me 
to  the  raid  to-night  in  his  own  car.  If  you  don't  mind 
sitting  on  my  lap,  I'll  make  him  let  you  in." 

"This  will  be  my  first  experience  at  eye-witnessing 
the  clash  of  the  powers  of  evil  against  the  hosts  of 

21 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

righteousness,"  Macy  remarked  as  they  walked  briskly 
toward  the  Police  Station. 

Bellamy  had  no  trouble  in  taking  his  guest  along  with 
him.  The  Chief  of  Police  had  assented  good-naturedly. 
Bellamy  was  an  influential  publicist,  besides  being  liked 
by  the  Chief  personally. 

"How  do  you  like  all  the  new  excitement?"  Bellamy 
asked  of  the  grizzled  old  officer  who,  on  this  occasion, 
was  more  silent  than  was  his  wont. 

"I'm  not  saying  anything,  son,"  the  old  man  answered 
after  a  pause.  "I've  seen  too  much  of  this  thing  before 
in  my  day;  but  if  this  is  what  they  want,  I'll  give  it  to 
'em  right.  I'm  not  the  Mayor  or  the  head  of  the  Police 
Commission.  I  take  my  orders  and  do  the  best  job  I 
can." 

'What  is  the  system  in  these  raids?"  asked  Macy. 

"Well,  they  vary,"  the  Chief  explained.  "We  sur- 
round the  house  generally,  force  an  entrance,  rustle  the 
girls  into  patrols,  and  give  'em  a  joy-ride  to  the  night 
court.  That's  the  way  it  always  used  to  be  when  the 
reformers  made  so  much  noise  that  we  had  to  do  some- 
thing to  shut  'em  up.  The  Madam,  of  course,  paid  the 
girls'  fines,  and  the  next  night  everything  was  run- 
ning the  same  as  ever.  But  this  Gleason  has  got  some 
new  ideas.  Now  we  not  only  arrest  the  girls,  but 
throw  'em  out,  bag  and  baggage,  close  the  house,  and 
then  keep  on  pulling  the  girls  wherever  we  find  'em. 
The  second  time  they  don't  get  off  with  a  fine.  They 
get  sent  up.  The  idea  now  is  to  run  'em  out  of 
town." 

"Isn't  dispossession  under  those  circumstances  illegal  ?" 
inquired  Macy. 

"Sure  it  is;  but  what  are  the  girls  to  do  about  it?" 

22 


The  Hunting  of  the  Woman 

The  old  Chief  turned  and  looked  at  the  young  man. 
"These  girls  haven't  got  any  rights  in  court.  None  of 
'em  dare  make  a  fight.  The  landlords  don't  kick ;  you'd 
be  surprised  if  you  knew  who  some  of  'em  were.  The 
whole  thing's  one-sided ;  the  girls  haven't  got  a  chance. 
They  make  the  best  of  it  by  scattering  or  going  to  an- 
other town." 

"You'll  see  how  it  is  to-night,"  Bellamy  put  in  to 
Macy.  "There'll  be  men  stationed  at  every  exit  so  none 
of  the  girls  can  escape.  Then  a  squad  will  enter  the 
house,  drag  the  inmates  out,  pack  them  in  the  wagons 
while  the  crowd  gathers.  The  Madam  may  protest,  but 
that's  all  the  good  it'll  do  her." 

"Sounds  like  great  sport,"  commented  Macy,  trying 
with  great  difficulty  to  light  a  cigarette  against  the 
wind. 

Bellamy  looked  at  his  friend  sharply,  and  a  slight 
frown  darkened  his  forehead.  Something  in  the  other's 
tone  displeased  him. 

"Yes,  it  will  be  sport,"  he  commented  dryly.  "But  it 
will  be  the  saddest,  crudest  sport  you've  ever  looked  on 
at.  Here  are  these  girls,  without  money,  thrown  o.ut  into 
the  streets  and  hounded  out  of  town.  They  haven't  a 
friend  in  the  world ;  everybody  is  their  enemy.  Even 
the  men  and  saloonkeepers  who  make  a  living  off  of  them 
use  every  trick  they  know  to  swindle  them.  Talk 
about  your  Roman  circuses  and  your  Neronian  orgies ! 
Believe  me,  Arnold,  this  new  form  of  sport  isn't  lacking 
in  racy  cruelty.  I'll  grant  we  would  be  better  off  with- 
out these  girls,  but  it  seems  to  me  there  ought  to  be  a 
less  heartless  way  out  of  it.  Somehow  I  can't  get  my 
mind  in  the  attitude  to  see  the  justice  of  it  all." 

The  machine  was  drawing  near  to  the  railway  station 

23 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

at  not  too  high  a  speed  to  attract  attention.  They  were 
already  in  a  poor  and  sordid  part  of  the  city.  The 
houses  were  old  and  ramshackle,  and  the  streets  were 
ill-kempt  and  rough.  Turning  by  the  station,  they  went 
north  into  Bridge  Street.  There  were  several  factories 
ahead  of  them,  and  in  between  there  stood  several  old 
residences  which,  even  in  their  present  squalid  surround- 
ings, attested  to  a  bygone  splendour.  The  shades  of  these 
houses  were  all  drawn.  Here  and  there  could  be  dis- 
cerned tiny  cracks  of  orange  light  where  the  shades  had 
blown  away  from  the  windows.  The  entrances  to  the 
houses  were  dark  and  inhospitable  save  for  a  tiny  red 
light  which  hung  immediately  above  the  number.  On 
nearly  every  corner  of  Bridge  Street  was  a  noisy,  garish 
saloon. 

"We'll  wait  here  a  minute  until  the  rest  of  the  boys 
come  up."  The  old  Chief  spoke  quietly  and  glanced  at  his 
watch.  "Dumond's  joint  is  the  brick  house  just  the 
other  side  of  the  gas  jet."  He  pointed  down  the  street 
to  an  old  four-story  dwelling  house,  about  midway  of 
the  block. 

Hardly  had  the  words  left  his  mouth  when  another 
machine  drove  up.  In  it  were  several  plainclothes  men, 
a  sergeant  in  uniform  and  two  patrolmen. 

The  sergeant  jumped  out  and  came  to  the  Chief. 

"The  wagons  are  round  the  corner,"  he  said  in  a 
guarded  tone,  saluting.  "I  told  the  boys  to  wait  for 
the  whistle." 

"All  right,  O'Connor,"  said  his  superior  officer.  "How 
about  Gleason  ?  Is  he  on  the  job  as  usual  ?" 

"Sure  he  is,"  laughed  the  sergeant.  "You  couldn't 
keep  him  away  with  a  team  of  mules.  That  must  be 
him  and  a  couple  of  his  henchmen  down  there  in  the 
24 


The  Hunting  of  the  Woman 

doorway."  He  pointed  to  the  factory  opposite  the  gas 
jet,  where  three  figures  were  standing  in  the  shadow. 
An  empty  taxicab  waited  nearby. 

"Well,  don't  get  him  sore,"  the  Chief  admonished, 
with  irritation,  and  there  was  in  his  voice  a  sign  of  sup- 
pressed antagonism  for  the  man  of  whom  he  was  speak- 
ing. "If  he  doesn't  get  all  the  credit  for  this  to-night,  he 
will  raise  the  devil  with  the  police  and  we  will  have  more 
trouble  than  we've  got  now.  .  .  .  Send  three  of  your 
men  up  the  alley  to  cover  the  fire-escapes.  Take  three 
of  'em  and  come  with  me.  We'll  tackle  the  front." 

A  hurrying  taxicab  drew  up  suddenly  and  three  young 
men  jumped  out.  They  were  joined  by  two  other  young 
men  with  cameras. 

"We're  just  in  time  for  the  first  act,"  said  one  of  them, 
laughingly.  Then  he  caught  sight  of  Bellamy  and  greeted 
him  pleasantly.  They  were  police  reporters  and  photog- 
raphers from  the  other  papers. 

"This  town  is  a  regular  one-ring  circus,"  remarked 
the  old  Chief  gruffly,  as  he  gave  a  signal  to  the  chauffeur. 

As  the  machine  stopped  suddenly  in  front  of  Blanche 
Dumond's  house,  the  three  figures  who  had  been  waiting 
in  the  doorway  opposite  came  across.  One  was  Gleason. 
With  him  were  the  Reverend  Birmingham  Smollet  and 
Judge  Amos  Bascomb,  both  leaders  and  co-workers  in 
the  campaign. 

"Howdy,  Chief!"  exclaimed  Gleason,  slapping  the  old 
man  on  the  shoulder.  "No  fouls  to-night,  now !  A  safe 
infield  hit'll  slam  us  on  third.  Then  it'll  be  a  cinch  to 
steal  home." 

The  sombre  old  Chief  of  Police  nodded  without  reply- 
ing, and  with  his  men  walked  quietly  up  the  stone  stairs 
of  Madam  Dumond's.  He  knocked  on  the  door  loudly, 

25 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

and  one  of  the  panels  swung  back,  making  a  rectangle  of 
yellow  on  the  deep  grey  of  the  house. 

"Open  up,  Blanche,"  came  the  Chief's  voice,  grave  and 
peremptory.  "I'm  sorry,  but  it's  got  to  be  done.  And 
there's  no  chance  for  any  getaways.  Come,  open  up  like 
a  good  girl  and  save  us  the  trouble  of  breaking  in." 

As  the  door  was  thrown  open,  the  sergeant  blew  a 
shrill  call  on  his  whistle.  There  was  a  sound  of  hurry- 
ing horses  and  revolving  wheels  at  both  corners  of  the 
street.  The  Chief  and  the  men  had  scarcely  entered  the 
house  when  three  patrol  wagons  were  backed  into  place. 

"You,  McCurdy  and  Elliott,  look  upstairs,"  ordered 
the  Chief. 

He  himself  with  one  of  the  men  turned  into  the  room 
at  one  side  of  the  hall,  while  the  sergeant  and  two  other 
men  took  the  opposite  door. 

Blanche  Dumond  had  not  spoken  a  word.  She  still 
stood  with  her  hand  on  the  door-knob,  looking  on  at 
the  drama  with  an  expression  of  dignified  and  almost 
philosophical  amusement.  There  was  no  surprise  in  her 
expression.  She  was  a  tall,  graceful  woman  and  showed 
no  outward  signs  of  her  profession  save  in  her  eyes, 
which  were  cold  and  penetrating.  There  was  even  a 
refinement  in  her  manner  and  bearing.  As  the  scantily 
attired  girls,  one  after  another,  were  roughly  thrown 
through  the  door  and  shoved  into  the  yawning  wagons, 
she  gave  them  a  smile  of  calm  assurance,  as  if  she  was 
sorry  for  their  fate  and  wished  to  promise,  without 
words,  that  she  would  do  all  she  could  for  them. 

Scarcely  had  the  wagons  appeared  in  front  of  the  house 

when  a  crowd  began  to  gather.    It  was  only  a  little  after 

midnight  and  the  nearby  saloons  had  been  well  filled  by 

the  motley  hangers-on  of  the  Tenderloin.    All  of  them 

26 


The  Hunting  of  the  Woman 

had  poured  out  at  the  first  signal,  and  now  stood  about 
the  wagons  looking  on  with  morbid  curiosity.  There 
were  women  too  in  the  gathering — denizens  of  the  all- 
night  cafes.  Their  faces  were  serious  and  fearful,  as  if 
they  sensed  in  the  event  before  them  a  presage  of  their 
own  fate.  The  men,  for  the  most  part,  however,  were 
jocular.  There  was  noisy  laughter  among  them,  hoot- 
ing, cat-calls  and  jeers.  As  they  recognised  certain  of 
the  women  who  were  being  arrested  they  greeted  them 
good-naturedly,  calling  them  by  name  and  commenting 
facetiously  on  their  tragedy.  A  man  now  and  then  sig- 
nalled seriously  to  one  of  the  girls,  making  pantomime 
gestures  indicative  of  his  intention  to  help  her  later. 
Several  of  the  older  men — political  bosses  in  their  little 
circles — commented  sarcastically  on  the  moralists  who 
had  instigated  the  proceedings. 

The  girls  themselves  were,  as  a  whole,  silent.  They 
accepted  their  fate  stolidly  as  something  not  altogether 
unexpected.  They  were  used  to  being  brow-beaten  by 
society;  no  cruelty  from  the  world  of  respectability 
would  have  astonished  them.  So  long  had  they  been 
told  through  the  papers  that  they  were  outcasts  that  they 
had  come  to  believe  it  themselves ;  and,  as  outcasts,  they 
knew  they  could  expect  no  consideration  or  quarter. 
Their  shame,  too,  had  disappeared.  They  did  not  shrink 
from  the  glances  of  the  curious  bystanders:  they  were 
public  in  every  sense  of  the  word.  One  or  two  of  them 
protested  at  the  manner  in  which  they  were  handled ;  but 
they  knew  their  protestations  were  futile,  and  there  was 
a  brazen  sense  of  comedy  beneath  their  words.  They 
were  acquainted  with  most  of  the  officers  personally  and 
called  them  by  their  first  names  when  addressing  them. 

Gleason,  the  Reverend   Smollet  and  Judge  Bascomb 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

stood  together,  looking  on  intently,  passing  indistinguish- 
able remarks  to  one  another.  They  seemed  well  pleased 
with  what  was  taking  place,  and  occasionally  Gleason 
would  smile  with  satisfaction  as  an  officer  forestalled 
the  attempt  of  a  girl  to  wrench  herself  free  from  her 
captor's  hold. 

In  the  yard  at  the  foot  of  the  steps  the  newspaper 
men  were  grouped*  If  they  saw  any  humour  in  the  hap- 
penings before  them  there  was  no  indication  of  it  on 
their  faces.  None  of  them  had  spoken ;  one  or  two  made 
hurried  notes  on  a  piece  of  folded  copy-paper.  An  occa- 
sional flash  of  illumination  told  that  the  newspaper  pho- 
tographers were  not  idle,  although  no  one  paid  the 
slightest  attention  as  the  flash-lights  were  taken.  The 
police  were  used  to  it,  and  the  girls  did  not  care. 

The  last  girl  to  be  taken  from  the  house  struggled 
furiously.  There  was  an  officer  on  either  side  of  her, 
and  she  hung  between  them  with  her  legs  drawn  up  so 
that  it  was  with  difficulty  that  she  was  carried  along. 
Her  language  was  violent — the  heated  expression  of 
her  anger. 

"Thought  you'd  hide  from  us,  did  you,  Mabel?"  one 
of  the  officers  was  saying  with  a  kind  of  triumphant 
amusement 

The  girl  ignored  his  taunt  and  began  screaming  and 
struggling  anew. 

Her  blasphemies  were  drowned  by  the  jeers  of  the 
crowd. 

"Say,  you!"  roared  the  old  Chief.    "Shut  up!" 

"Shut  up?"  cried  the  girl.    "I've  only  just  begun.  .  .  . 
I  thought  you  and  Billy  was  my  friends.    Well,  I'm  not 
through  with  you  yet.    I've  got  a  few  things  to  tell  when 
I  get  a  chance." 
28 


The  Hunting  of  the  Woman 

"Don't  take  it  so  hard,  girlie,"  Blanche  Dumond  said 
to  her  serenely,  as  the  other  was  being  dragged  across 
the  porch. 

"You're  a  swell  madam,  you  are !"  the  girl  flung  back 
at  her  angrily.  "Not  having  enough  pull  with  the  police 
to  be  tipped  off!  Huh!" 

Blanche  Dumond  looked  at  her  sadly  and  said  nothing. 

"Come  on,  you  little  devil !"  snarled  one  of  the  officers. 

The  girl  had  managed  to  get  hold  of  the  porch  railing 
and  clung  to  it  desperately.  She  was  roughly  jerked  free, 
and  again  she  burst  forth  in  a  wild  paroxysm  of  threats. 

The  crowd  now  was  laughing,  yelling  and  whistling  in 
derision,  like  the  excited  spectators  at  a  prize  fight.  Bel- 
lamy and  Macy  were  standing  very  close  to  her.  They 
could  see  her  distinctly  by  the  light  of  the  gas  jet,  and 
could  hear  her  words.  She  was  a  pretty  girl  and  did  not 
look  over  seventeen  years  old.  Her  features  were  pretty 
but  heavy,  dark-tinted  with  olive,  and  her  cheeks  were 
red  enough  without  the  use  of  rouge.  She  resembled  the 
women  of  Spain  or  Southern  Italy.  Her  hair  was  long 
and  black  and  hung  down  her  back  in  disarray.  Her 
eyes  were  unusually  large. 

As  she  pulled  herself  around  to  hurl  a  final  sneer  at 
Blanche  Dumond,  she  caught  sight  of  Gleason  looking  at 
her  complacently.  Suddenly  she  drew  herself  up  and 
narrowed  her  eyes. 

"So,  there  you  are,  you  hypocrite!"  she  screamed, 
shaking  her  fist  at  him.  "You're  to  blame  for  this.  But 
you  wait;  I'll  fix  you — and  I'll  fix  you  right,  you  four- 
flusher,  you  beast!  .  .  .  Nobody  was  troubling  you — 
and  I'll  get  even  with  you,  remember  that!  .  .  .  My 
name's  Mabel  Mordaunt,  and  don't  you  forget  it.  ...  I 

know  your  kind.    You  just  wait,  you " 

29 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

The  officers  lifted  her  up  bodily  and  forced  her  into 
the  wagon,  where  she  broke  down  and  cried  hysterically. 

Blanche  Dumond  was  put  into  the  wagon  next  to  her. 
She  was  quiet,  even  a  little  proud,  and  something  in 
her  manner  made  the  officer  release  her  arm  as  she 
stepped  firmly  to  her  seat.  She  was  still  calm  and  com- 
posed. Both  Bellamy  and  Macy  saw  her  put  her  arm 
around  the  weeping  girl's  shoulder  and  speak  comfort- 
ingly. Then  the  two  young  men  turned  again  into  the 
house. 

The  lights  were  being  put  out.  The  Chief  himself  was 
the  last  to  leave.  He  closed  the  doors  personally  and 
ordered  one  of  his  men  to  nail  on  an  emergency  lock. 
Then  he  turned  with  a  slight  shrug  of  the  shoulders  and 
waved  his  arm  to  the  drivers  to  be  off. 

Gleason  rubbed  his  hands  together  with  satisfaction. 

"Are  you  sure  you  nabbed  them  all,  Chief?"  he  asked 
with  satisfied  jocularity.  "None  of  'em  hidin'  in  ward- 
robes?" 

"I  think  we  got  'em  all,  Mr.  Gleason,"  the  old  man 
replied  with  dignity. 

"And  have  you  got  all  the  men?" 

The  Chief  merely  nodded  as  he  stepped  down  the 
stairs  and  gave  his  orders  to  his  men. 

The  crowd  dispersed,  muttering  and  commenting  inco- 
herently. The  windows  along  the  streets  were  slammed 
down.  The  newspaper  men  jumped  into  their  machines 
and  drove  quickly  away. 

"Hurry  me  back  to  the  ofHce,  will  you,  Chief  ?"  asked 
Bellamy.  "I've  got  to  write  a  lurid  account  of  this  es- 
capade of  Gleason's." 

The  old  man  merely  grunted  as  he  mounted  his  car 
and  told  the  driyer  to  hurry  to  the  Star  office. 
30 


CHAPTER  II 

THE  UPRIGHT  MAN 

THE  following  evening  Elijah  Bradshaw  sat  in  his 
study  working  upon  a  statement  for  the  news- 
papers. He  was  a  large,  severe  man,  typical  of  the 
American  captain  of  industry.  His  hair  was  slightly  grey 
and  his  features  were  straight  and  implacable.  He  was 
smoothshaven  and  had  quiet,  dominating  eyes,  a  strong, 
powerfully  built  nose,  a  firm,  broad  mouth,  and  a  square, 
protruding  chin.  His  face  was  rugged  and  creased. 
Worry  and  hard  work  had  given  it  an  impervious  char- 
acter. It  was  by  no  means  a  vicious  face  and  there 
were  undeniable  marks  of  good  breeding  in  it.  His  eyes 
and  mouth  were  slightly  cruel,  like  those  of  a  man  who 
had  fought  hard  and  had  put  self-preservation  above  all 
else. 

In  his  office  and  in  his  home  he  ruled  with  an  iron 
hand.  His  opinions  had  all  been  formed,  and  he  would 
not  listen  to  argument.  He  was  proud,  and  with  his  in- 
feriors a  little  overbearing;  but  he  had  qualities  which 
commanded  respect  and  admiration.  He  dressed  well 
but  never  foppishly.  His  parents  had  been  poor,  but  they 
had  possessed  a  degree  of  culture,  and  though  Elijah 
Bradshaw  had  built  his  own  fortune  through  hard  work 
and  competition,  he  had  lost  little  of  his  inherent  refine- 
ment and  suavity. 

His  ideal  was  success,  and  he  had  no  patience  with 

31 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

men  who  failed.  He  lived  by  a  strict  moral  code  which 
he  enforced  among  his  employes  and  in  his  home.  In 
his  religion  he  was  orthodox,  just  as  he  was  in  his  busi- 
ness. He  had  never  deliberately  done  a  dishonest  act, 
not,  perhaps,  because  of  any  innate  scrupulousness,  but 
because  he  had  always  been  taught  that  honesty  was  the 
best  policy.  This  teaching  had  become  a  belief  with  him 
and  finally  a  conviction. 

Morally  he  was  not  abnormal.  In  his  youth  he  had 
sown  his  wild  oats,  but  since  his  marriage  (which  took 
place  in  his  late  twenties)  he  had  not  deviated  from  the 
world's  ethical  and  moral  standards.  He  hated  sin  both 
in  the  abstract  and  in  the  individual,  for  it  spelled  to 
him  a  weakness  which  he  could  not  tolerate.  To  him  it 
was  synonymous  with  inefficiency  and  therefore  not  to 
be  condoned  any  more  than  he  would  condone  commer- 
cial inefficiency. 

His  position  in  the  life  of  Edenburg  was  an  established 
one.  He  was  envied  and  looked  up  to.  His  name  on 
any  public  enterprise  was  a  guarantee  that  the  enterprise 
would  be  accepted  respectfully ;  and  when  a  dominating 
personality  was  needed  to  head  the  Citizens'  Committee 
in  their  investigations  of  the  local  vice  conditions,  there 
was  no  other  man  but  Elijah  Bradshaw  whose  name 
would  have  carried  with  it  such  weight  and  dignity. 
Furthermore,  he  was  personally  in  sympathy  with  the 
aims  of  the  Committee.  He  was  a  religious  man  and  not 
only  attended  church  regularly  himself  but  demanded  the 
same  from  all  members  of  his  family. 

His  wife  was  a  quiet,  sweet,  competent  woman,  ad- 
mired and  loved  by  all  who  knew  her.  She  was  fifty- 
five,  Bradshaw's  junior  by  five  years.  She  had  been 
poor  when  he  married  her,  and  she  loved  him  with  an 
32 


The  Upright  Man 

all-embracing  affection.  She  had  taken  part  in  her  hus- 
band's early  struggles,  had  followed  him  sympathetically 
in  every  advance,  had  helped  him  and  worked  for  him. 
She  was  his  best  ally,  and  over  and  beyond  her  love  she 
was  also  his  most  enthusiastic  admirer.  She  was  prac- 
tical and  sane  in  all  things,  tender  and  loving,  and  her 
participation  in  the  local  charities  was  animated  by  a 
genuine  desire  to  help  those  who  were  in  need. 

Although  in  later  years  her  husband  had  become 
wealthy  Martha  Bradshaw  had  never  become  a  social 
climber  in  any  sense  of  the  word.  She  received  into  her 
home  the  best  element  in  Edenburg,  and  her  presence  was 
sought  after  by  those  who  made  social  activities  their  one 
aim  in  life.  But  under  all  circumstances  she  was  the 
same — simple,  genuine,  spontaneous,  unaffected.  She 
preferred,  as  she  had  always  done,  her  own  home  and 
its  responsibilities  to  the  usual  social  diversions  of  the 
other  women  with  whom  she  associated.  She  had  no 
great  animating  interest  in  life  aside  from  her  husband 
and  the  two  children  whom  she  had  reared  tenderly  and 
affectionately.  She  was  a  comely  woman  with  sensitive 
features  and  a  pleasing  and  unstudied  manner.  Judged 
by  modern  standards,  she  was  a  trifle  old-fashioned. 

Her  son  and  her  daughter  were  now  grown.  Elizabeth 
was  eighteen;  Paul  was  twenty-four;  but  the  motherly 
instinct  in  Martha  Bradshaw  had  never  diminished. 
Elizabeth  and  Paul  were  still  children  to  her,  and  she 
looked  after  them  with  the  intimate  care  she  had  always 
given  them.  For  this  reason,  perhaps,  both  of  them  were 
somewhat  spoiled.  Paul  had  just  graduated  from  a  local 
university,  and  through  his  father's  influence  had  been 
given  a  responsible  position  in  a  large  local  bank.  He 
dressed  stylishly  and  carried  himself  in  a  manner  which 

33 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

suggested  a  proud,  well-schooled  and  worldly-wise  youth. 
He  had  imbibed  many  of  the  newer  ideas,  and  there  was 
a  continual  temperamental  clash  between  him  and  his 
father.  There  was  a  streak  of  wildness  in  his  nature, 
and  back  of  it  was  the  confidence  of  his  position. 

Elizabeth  was  a  beautiful  girl.  She  attracted  the 
attention  of  all  with  whom  she  tame  in  contact  and  was 
universally  popular  in  the  younger  set.  She  had  inherited 
from  her  mother  traits  of  tenderness  and  compassion  as 
well  as  a  simple  sweetness  and  faith  which  she  always 
retained  even  when  under  the  influence  of  the  frivolous 
young  people  to  whom  she  had  taken  a  liking  ever  since 
her  graduation  from  an  exclusive  Edenburg  boarding- 
school. 

These  four  constituted  the  Bradshaw  household. 

Elijah  Bradshaw  spent  his  money  freely  on  his  family, 
buying  for  them  the  best  that  could  be  had  and  taking  a 
pride  in  his  expenditures.  In  the  matter  of  personal 
bank  accounts  he  was  strict.  His  son  had  a  good  posi- 
tion, and  he  believed  that  outside  of  the  home  the  young 
man  should  live  within  his  means  and  should  make  his 
own  fortune  or  fail  according  to  his  abilities. 

In  his  recent  activities  Bradshaw  had  been  influenced 
largely  by  a  desire  to  protect  his  children.  In  his  son 
he  had  absolute  confidence,  and  in  his  daughter  also ;  but 
he  believed  that,  were  all  evil  influences  removed,  it 
would  be  better  for  both  of  them.  He  had  often  said 
to  his  business  associates :  "The  cleaner  the  town,  the 
cleaner  its  people."  And  when  he  had  applied  this  maxim 
to  his  own  immediate  family  circle,  it  had  taken  on  a 
new  meaning  and  had  inspired  him  with  a  desire  to  elim- 
inate every  vicious  commodity  which  might  at  some  time 
or  other  react  upon  his  children. 
34 


The  Upright  Man 

Following  out  this  same  desire,  he  had  always  been 
unusually  strict  with  them.  He  allowed  his  daughter  but 
few  liberties,  attempting  to  mould  her  into  the  pattern 
of  his  wife.  His  ambition  was  that  some  day  his  son 
Paul  would  step  into  his  own  place ;  and  when  he  should 
be  too  old  to  carry  on  the  battle,  he  hoped  the  young  man 
would  shoulder  the  burden  of  responsibility.  He  made 
no  allowances  for  the  social  changes  which  had  swept 
over  the  world  since  he  was  young.  In  all  his  dealings 
with  his  children  he  had  unconsciously  patterned  his 
actions  on  those  of  his  own  father. 

As  he  sat  at  his  desk  the  night  after  the  raid  on 
Blanche  Dumond's  house,  preparing  a  statement,  he  was 
unconsciously  doing  what  he  thought  best  for  his  own 
flesh  and  blood.  After  a  half  hour's  work  he  glanced  at 
the  clock  and  rang  for  the  butler. 

"Otto,"  he  said,  when  the  man  entered,  "I  am  expect- 
ing the  Reverend  Smollet  and  Mr.  Gleason  to-night. 
When  they  come,  please  show  them  in  to  me  at  once." 

He  then  resumed  his  work. 

A  half  hour  later  the  Reverend  Mr.  Smollet  was  an- 
nounced. He  walked  in  confidently  and  extended  his 
hand  with  effusive  friendliness.  He  was  a  man  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  forty-five,  the  pastor  of  Bradshaw's 
church  and  the  most  influential  minister  of  the  Gospel  in 
Edenburg.  He  belonged  to  the  new  school  of  ministers, 
was  alert,  fearless,  frank,  outspoken  and,  from  the  con- 
ventional point  of  view,  broad-minded.  There  was  about 
him  an  air  of  prosperity.  He  was,  in  fact,  subsidised 
by  his  wealthy  parishioners  and  had  the  largest  and 
costliest  church  in  the  city.  His  sermons  were  always  on 
modern  themes,  and  even  in  the  pulpit  he  dressed 
smartly,  so  that  he  looked  more  like  a  well-groomed 

35 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

businessman  than  an  orthodox  clergyman.  He  had  a 
frank,  insinuating  manner  which  was  calculated  to  im- 
press the  casual  person  with  a  sense  of  unalterable  con- 
fidence and  genuine  sincerity. 

"I'm  sorry  I'm  late,  Bradshaw,"  he  said,  sitting  down. 
"Gleason  will  be  with  us  in  a  few  minutes.  We  ran 
into  a  lot  of  reporters  up  the  street,  and  they  held  him 
up.  The  man's  personality  is  simply  astonishing.  It  was 
a  master  idea  of  yours  to  get  him  for  Edenburg.  If  he 
cannot  crown  our  campaign  with  success  the  case  is 
indeed  hopeless.  His  methods  may  be  questionable,  but 
after  all  it  is  results  which  count.  Don't  you  think  so?" 

"If  a  man's  methods  are  honest,"  Bradshaw  answered 
a  little  sententiously,  "we  can  well  overlook  his  manner- 
isms. ...  I  saw  by  the  papers  that  another  nail  was 
driven  into  the  coffin  of  the  Tenderloin  last  night." 

Smollet  beamed.  "More  than  a  nail,"  he  said  pleas- 
antly. 

"In  fact,  a  bolt  was  put  on  literally  and  figuratively. 
The  raid  went  through  in  short  order.  Gleason  and  I 
and  the  Judge  were  there  and  marvelled  at  the  smooth- 
ness with  which  the  business  was  carried  through.  As  I 
said  to  Gleason:  'It's  not  that  we  haven't  a  capable 
police  force;  it's  the  moral  apathy  of  the  public.'  In 
twenty  minutes  one  of  the  most  notorious  and  disgraceful 
houses  in  the  city  was  emptied  and  locked  up.  And  there 
wasn't  a  hitch — no  trouble.  It  was  accomplished  quietly 
and  with  despatch.  Only  one  of  the  girls  tried  to  make 
a  scene — a  little  girl;  looked  like  a  foreigner.  You 
should  have  heard  her  threaten  and  scream.  She  actually 
shook  her  fist  at  Gleason ;  told  him  he  must  never  forget 
her  name;  said  it  was  Mabel  Mordaunt  and  that  he 
would  hear  from  her  again."  Smollet  laughed  quietly. 
36 


The  Upright  Man 

"Such  things  are  to  be  expected,  of  course.  .  .  .  And  by 
the  way,  that  was  a  first-rate  story  young  Bellamy  wrote 
for  the  Star  this  morning.  He  told  me  you  were  pre- 
paring a  statement  for  that  paper.  How  goes  it?" 

Bradshaw  gathered  up  from  his  desk  some  loose  pieces 
of  paper  on  which  was  a  great  deal  of  writing. 

"It's  to  be  a  kind  of  resume,"  he  said.  "The  papers 
seem  to  think  that  I  should  give  them  a  personally  signed 
statement.  Perhaps,  after  all,  it  is  a  good  idea.  Gleason 
isn't  one  of  our  citizens,  you  know,  and  maybe  it  would 
have  more  weight  coming  from  me.  Just  a  minute  ago 
the  Star  'phoned  me,  asking  if  I  would  hurry  it  up  for 
them.  However,  I  think  I'll  hold  it  up  a  few  days  until 
we  are  further  along  in  the  campaign.  This  isn't  quite 
the  psychological  moment.  What  do  you  think  of 
it?" 

"Perhaps  you  are  right,"  Smollet  agreed.  "Our  work 
is  only  well  begun.  We  may  need  it  later  as  a  kind  of 
wedge  to  pry  up  some  of  the  indifference  in  certain  quar- 
ters. You  are  making  it  strong?" 

Bradshaw  smiled  confidently  and  glanced  down  at  the 
pages  in  his  hand. 

"You  may  rest  assured  of  that,  my  dear  Smollet.  This 
is  no  time  for  half  measures.  I  feel  that  the  thing  must 
be  done  now  or  never.  I  am  preparing  the  statement  as 
a  kind  of  final  blow  at  segregated  vice  in  this  city,  and  I 
realise  that  it  must  come  straight  from  the  shoulder. 
There  are  too  many  factions  working  against  us.  Do  you 
know,  Smollet,  that  I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  the 
Mayor  and  the  Chief  of  Police  are  not  as  enthusiastic 
about  it  as  we  have  a  right  to  expect?" 

"Neither  one  of  them  would  dare  go  against  us,"  the 
other  assured  him.  "Didn't  we  help  put  the  Mayor  in 

37 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

office?  He  has  his  eye  on  the  next  election,  too,  I'll 
warrant.  If  he  antagonises  us  now  it  will  go  hard  for 
him  later."  He  rubbed  his  hands  together  almost  ec- 
statically. "What  a  victory!"  he  commented,  as  if  to 
himself.  "What  a  victory !" 

Bradshaw  arose  and  advanced  toward  the  other. 

"Victory,  yes ;  I  think  we  can  almost  call  it  that,  even 
now.  But,  at  that,  we  mustn't  give  the  Mayor  a  chance 
to  recant.  That's  the  reason  I'm  getting  this  paper  ready. 
The  minute  I  see  signs  of  weakening  on  his  part  it  will 
go  into  every  newspaper  in  the  city.  After  his  reading 
it  I  doubt  if  he  would  have  the  nerve  to  go  against  us. 
At  all  events  we  must  clinch  the  thing.  We  must  apply 
the  'sleep  wallop/  as  Gleason  would  say." 

Both  men  laughed  a  little. 

"Splendid!"  exclaimed  Smollet,  beaming.  "I've  al- 
ways held  that  all  the  church  needed  were  up-to-date 
business  methods." 

Bradshaw  sat  down  again  at  his  desk  and  arranged 
the  papers  before  him.  "Would  you  like  to  hear  some 
of  what  I  have  written?  The  report  will  be  brief — 
comparatively  brief,  that  is — but  to  the  point." 

"By  all  means,"  replied  Smollet  enthusiastically, 
drawing  up  his  chair.  "Let  me  hear  what  you  have 
written." 

Bradshaw  began  reading.  "  'To  the  people  of  Eden- 
burg:  As  Chairman  of  the  Citizens'  Committee,  I  de- 
sire now  to  congratulate  the  members  of  this  community 
on  the  great  victories  which  they  have  won  and  are  win- 
ning over  the  powers  of  Satan.  The  final  and  inevitable 
elimination  of  the  segregated  vice  district,  which,  from 
every  indication,  will  be  but  a  matter  of  a  short  time, 
will  crown  with  success  the  crusade  which  we  have 
38 


The  Upright  Man 

waged  for  weeks  prayerfully  and,  with  God's  help,  po- 
tently. Already  the  doors  have  been  closed  on  many  of 
the  dens  of  depravity  which  have  so  long  corrupted  our 
city;  and  it  is  safe  to  predict  at  this  time  that  within 
the  next  fortnight  all  of  these  dens  will  be  driven  out 
of  business  and  that  their  shameless  inmates  will  no 
longer  menace  the  youth  of  our  city.  .  .  .'  " 

"And  you  are  right,"  interrupted  Smollet  heartily.  "It 
will  be  in  even  less  than  a  fortnight  though,  or  I  greatly 
err  in  my  estimation  of  Gleason's  ability." 

"So  much  the  better  then,"  Bradshaw  answered.  "But 
it  would  not  do  to  be  too  sanguine.  I  have  endeavoured 
throughout  this  statement  to  be  at  least  conservative. 
Here,  however,  is  a  passage  which  I  think  will  forestall 
any  backsliding  on  the  Mayor's  part.  Listen :  'As  head 
of  this  Committee  I  have  been  subjected  to  much  criticism 
by  sentimentalists  who  profess  to  believe  that  these 
women  have  certain  rights,  that  they  should  be  coddled 
and  pampered  and  paraded  as  martyrs.  I  am 
disturbed  by  no  such  convictions.  When  a  leper 
comes  into  our  midst  the  law  does  not  inquire  how  he 
came  to  be  a  leper,  but  it  says :  "Banish  him  instantly." 
So  say  I  of  moral  lepers.  I  believe  in  giving  sin 
no  quarter,  in  holding  no  parley  with  evil-doers.  A 
clean  sweep  of  the  Tenderloin  has  been  my  goal  in  this 
fight,  and  I  praise  God  that  we  are  on  the  eve  of  victory. 
Too  often  have  we  been  told  that  such  a  campaign  as 
ours  was  impracticable,  that  it  was  impossible  to  suppress 
the  viciousness  which  has  been  flourishing ;  but  that  state- 
ment is  no  more  than  a  superstition,  as  has  already  been 
proved  by  the  fact  that  a  good  portion  of  the  Tenderloin 
is  already  closed  and  deserted.  When  the  inmates  of 
these  houses  begin  to  realise  that  their  position  here  is 

39 


Eternal  Magdalene 

dangerous  and  that  they  will  be  shown  no  consideration 
and  are  unable  to  demand  protection  from  the  police, 
they  will  go  elsewhere,  and  those  of  them  who  brazenly 
remain,  hoping  for  leniency,  will  be  forcibly  ejected. 
That  has  already  been  the  case  in  several  instances.  I 
seriously  doubt  if  there  are  a  dozen  men  or  women  in 
the  entire  community  who,  in  his  or  her  heart,  at  least, 
is  not  in  sympathy  with  our  great  and  purifying  work. 
The  dissenters  are,  almost  without  exception,  from  that 
class  of  people  who,  either  for  personal  or  business 
reasons,  profit  by  the  presence  of  these  women.  But  they 
are  no  better  than  the  women  themselves.'  " 

Bradshaw  looked  up  in  time  to  receive  a  nod  of  appro- 
bation from  the  Reverend  Smollet. 

"You  see,"  he  explained,  "I  am,  in  a  way,  putting  the 
people  of  this  city  on  their  honour.  You  might  say  I  am 
classifying  them.  But  I  am  not  even  leaving  it  at  that. 
I  shall  take  no  chances  with  the  political  ring  at  the 
Court  House.  I  make  a  direct  appeal  to  the  Mayor." 
He  cast  his  eyes  again  to  the  loose  papers  in  his  hand 
and  began  to  read :  "  'I  take  this  occasion  to  thank  the 
Mayor  and  members  of  the  Committee  who,  to  a  man, 
have  given  and  are  giving  their  best  efforts  to  this  cause, 
and  to  all  others  who,  by  their  encouragement  and  pray- 
ers, have  assisted  us  in  our  fight !" 

"Excellent !"  Smollet  smiled  reassuringly.  "But  what 
did  you  say  of  Gleason?" 

"This,"  said  the  other,  reading:  "'But  most  of  all  I 
wish  to  thank  the  Reverend  James  Gleason,  the  great 
evangelist  whose  inspiring  words  have  awakened  this 
city  to  a  realisation  of  its  sinfulness,  and  whose  fearless 
actions  have  gone  so  far  toward  a  practical  consumma- 
tion of  the  desires  of  every  decent-minded  citizen.  With- 
40 


The  Upright  Man 

out  the  Reverend  Gleason  no  such  crusade  as  ours  could 
be  triumphantly  accomplished.' " 

Bradshaw  laid  the  papers  to  one  side. 

Smollet  said  nothing  for  a  moment.  It  was  obvious 
that  something  had  displeased  him. 

Bradshaw  looked  at  him  closely  and  asked,  "What  did 
you  think  of  it?" 

The  other  merely  inquired  in  return :  "Is  that  all  of 
your  statement?" 

A  shrewd  smile  spread  over  Bradshaw's  face.  He  un- 
derstood Smollet's  disquietude. 

"No,  no,  of  course  not,"  he  said.  "What  I  read  you 
is  a  mere  beginning.  As  I  go  along  I  shall  review  every 
phase  of  the  movement  from  its  inception;  and  rest  as- 
sured, my  dear  sir,  that  I  shall  see  you  get  full  credit 
for  your  part  in  it." 

Smollet  pretended  not  to  be  affected  by  that  for  which 
he  had  been  listening  all  along. 

"I  have  really  done  nothing  worth  speaking  of,"  he 
said  carelessly. 

"Ah !  but  you  have !"  Bradshaw  insisted.  "My  friend, 
you  are  the  real  pioneer.  That  series  of  sermons  you 
preached  last  year  set  the  ball  rolling." 

"I  beg  of  you !"  protested  the  other. 

"And  surely  you  have  not  forgotten  your  New  Year's 
Eve  grillroom  expeditions — your  expose  of  the  dance 
halls,  the  poolroom,  the  theatres.  .  .  ." 

"My  dear  Bradshaw !"  Smollet  held  up  his  hand  depre- 
catingly. 

"Those  sermons  were  the  sparks  that  set  off  this  town's 
moral  magazine." 

The  minister  brightened  and  sat  up  a  trifle  straighter 
in  his  chair. 

41 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

"I'm  overjoyed  to  know  that  you  think  so,"  he  said, 
with  an  attempt  at  modesty.  "But  you,  Bradshaw — 
without  you  and  your  great  generosity  and  influence  if 
all  would  have  been  impossible.  Even  in  my  little  ex- 
peditions, as  you  call  them,  I  attained  no  final  results. 
In  a  month  things  were  as  bad  as  they  ever  were.  I 
didn't  have  you  behind  me  then." 

"But  now  we  are  all  together,"  the  other  man  said 
confidently.  "You,  in  a  measure,  furnish  the  prestige, 
and  aid  by  your  sermons  and  personal  energies.  Gleason 
is  the  dynamic  factor.  He  is  the  man  at  the  wheel  who 
assumes  the  responsibility  and  steers  the  ship  to  safety. 
All  that  I  have  really  done  is  to  put  up  the  money.  But, 
after  all,  that  too  was  necessary.  One  cannot  expect  a 
man  like  Gleason  to  work  for  nothing.  But  I  am  wealthy 
enough — and  how  could  any  man  spend  money  to  better 
purpose?  I  don't  regret  a  dollar  of  it." 

Smollet  advanced  and  shook  the  other's  hand. 

"I  know  you  don't,  Bradshaw,  and  your  attitude  is 
anything  but  commercial.  Behind  it  is  a  high  and  noble 
spirit.  This  work  will  be  a  lasting  monument  to  you,  and 
rightly  so." 

Mrs.  Bradshaw  had  come  quietly  downstairs  and  now 
stood  in  the  doorway  looking  in  upon  the  two  men. 
During  her  husband's  crusade  she  herself  had  taken  a 
hand;  that  is,  she  had  interested  herself  in  the  problem 
from  the  women's  point  of  view.  With  two  women 
friends  of  hers  who  were  closely  associated  with  her  in 
her  charity  work,  she  had  gone  personally  into  the  slums 
and  the  Tenderloin,  making  inquiries,  discussing  mat- 
ters with  the  women,  and  doing  what  she  could  to  alle- 
viate their  conditions. 

For  weeks  she  had  worked  hard.  Whenever  she  had 
42 


The  Upright  Man 

found  sickness  and  disease,  she  had  telephoned  for  her 
own  doctor  to  come  down  and  give  her  assistance.  Where 
she  had  found  poverty  and  want  she  had  contributed 
judiciously  from  her  own  funds.  In  a  feminine  way  she 
had  studied  the  environmental  conditions  of  those  people 
whom  her  husband  sought  to  drive  from  the  city.  She 
had  attended  the  local  Missions,  and  on  two  occasions 
had  appeared  in  the  night  court.  Through  a  lawyer 
whom  she  had  taken  with  her  she  had  arranged  bail  for 
two  of  the  girls  who  had  been  deserted  by  their  pro- 
tectors. These  girls  she  had  cared  for  afterwards.  She 
had  bought  them  clothes,  and  through  her  influence  had 
secured  them  positions. 

The  work  in  its  externals  had  been  distasteful  to  her. 
She  received  from  it  little  satisfaction  from  the  stand- 
point of  the  morbid  interest  which  motivated  the  actions 
of  many  of  the  women  who  worked  among  the  cast- 
aways of  society.  However,  she  wanted  to  do  good,  and 
her  capability  and  practicality  were  valuable  assets.  She 
was  not  a  strong  woman  physically,  and  the  work  had 
been  tiring,  but  she  had  been  willing,  even  eager,  to 
continue  it,  for  she  felt  that  it  was  for  the  best, 
and  that  she  was  needed.  She  avoided  publicity  as 
much  as  possible.  She  had  a  genuine  distaste  for  the 
spectacular  and  flamboyant  accounts  in  the  newspa- 
pers of  the  charitable  activities  of  prominent  society 
women. 

Her  husband  at  first  had  tried  to  discourage  her.  He 
did  not  believe  in  her  methods.  His  attitude  toward 
social  problems  was  more  rigorous  and  severe.  He  was 
sceptical  as  to  the  beneficial  results  of  gentleness  in  deal- 
ing with  the  members  of  the  underworld.  But  so  per- 
sistent had  Mrs.  Bradshaw  been  that  he  ceased  his  ob- 

43 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

jections,  and  went  ahead  with  the  campaign  in  his  own 
manner,  leaving  his  wife  to  do  what  good  she  could 
according  to  her  vision. 

As  she  entered  the  room  that  night,  she  was  a  trifle 
pale.  She  had  had  a  busy  and  trying  day,  and  her  health 
had  begun  to  give  way  under  the  strain.  She  greeted 
the  Reverend  Smollet  pleasantly,  and  sat  down  near  her 
husband. 

"You  are  going  to  the  Tabernacle,  aren't  you?"  he 
asked  her. 

"Of  course,"  she  replied  at  once,  as  if  there  should 
have  been  no  doubt  in  his  mind  concerning  it,  but  her 
voice  was  a  little  tired. 

She  turned  to  the  Reverend   Smollet. 

"I  haven't  missed  one  of  the  meetings  yet.  I  wish 
every  one  in  Edenburg  could  say  as  much." 

"Well,  my  record  is  perfect,"  the  minister  replied 
lightly.  "I  am  on  my  way  there  now.  I  was  waiting 
here  for  Gleason." 

"I  am  glad  he's  coming  here,  if  only  for  a  minute," 
Mrs.  Bradshaw  returned  quietly.  "He  hasn't  been  here 
for  nearly  a  week.  But  I  suppose  he's  terribly  busy. 
When  my  little  work  takes  so  much  time  I  can  well 
imagine  that  he  hasn't  a  minute  to  spare,  with  all  the 
big  things  he's  doing.  .  .  .  What  a  wonderful  man  he 
is!  And  tireless,  it  seems.  Somehow  I  don't  see  how 
he  stands  it." 

Smollet  smiled.  "Neither  does  any  one  else.  He's  a 
human  dynamo — one  might  almost  say  a  human  per- 
petual-motion machine.  But  you  too  are  kept  busy, 
Mrs.  Bradshaw.  In  the  papers  this  afternoon  I  saw 
that  you  and  some  of  the  other  ladies  from  the  church 
had  visited  the  unfortunate  women  again  to-day.  .  .  . 
44 


The  Upright  Man 

Tell  me,  just  what  do  you  think  of  their  situation?  A 
woman's  point  of  view  is  always  valuable." 

Mrs.  Bradshaw  frowned  and  looked  troubled  for  a 
moment.  She  was  thinking  of  some  of  her  recent  ex- 
periences, and  the  memory  troubled  her. 

"I  don't  know  what  to  make  of  them,"  she  at  length 
answered  slowly.  "I  am  completely  upset  over  the  whole 
matter.  Only  last  night  I  told  Elijah  that  I  couldn't  make 
up  my  mind  whether  or  not  we  were  doing  just  the 
right  thing — the  Christian  thing — in  driving  them  out." 

She  looked  inquiringly  at  the  man  to  whom  she  was 
speaking  and  then  turned  to  her  husband. 

Smollet  cleared  his  throat  a  little,  and  after  a  slight 
hesitation  said  politely:  "Really,  your  words  astonish 
me,  Mrs.  Bradshaw.  I  was  under  the  impression  that 
we  were  following  the  only  true  Christian  course  in 
stamping  sin  out  of  our  midst  at  any  cost.  But  tell  me, 
what  has  happened  to  make  you  feel  like  this  ?" 

Bradshaw,  seeing  that  his  wife  was  in  a  quandary,  felt 
called  upon  to  say  something. 

"I  think,"  he  put  in  pleasantly,  "that  perhaps  Martha 
has  a  touch  of  that  sentimentality  I  referred  to  in  this." 
He  indicated  the  pile  of  papers  from  which  he  had 
recently  read  excerpts. 

Mrs.  Bradshaw  smiled  faintly. 

"Call  it  what  you  like,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  of  tender 
resignation.  "Perhaps  it  is  sentimentality — perhaps  it 
is  something  else.  Only  I  have  talked  to  a  great  many 
of  these  women.  .  .  ."  She  paused,  and  then  added : 
"They  are  all  so  different  from  what  I  had  been  led  to 
expect." 

"In  what  way  are  they  different  ?"  It  was  Smollet  who 
put  the  question. 

45 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

"Well,  they  are  human,"  explained  the  woman,  "and 
I  had  hardly  thought  of  them  in  that  light.  You  see,  we 
read  such  terrible  things  about  them  in  the  newspapers, 
and  when  I  have  heard  you  and  my  husband  speak  of 
them  I  got  the  impression  that  they  are  not  like  other 
women.  .  .  .  Do  you  know,  I  have  met  scarcely  one  of 
them  in  my  whole  experience  who  is  not  supporting 
children,  or  an  old  father  or  mother,  or  is  not  taking 

care  of  sick  relatives Oh,  I  know  what  you  are 

going  to  say,"  she  continued  hurriedly,  raising  her  hand. 
"You  are  going  to  accuse  them  of  telling  me  untruths 
for  the  sake  of  arousing  sympathy.  But  I  did  not  learn 
this  from  the  girls  themselves.  I  learned  it  from  the 
women  who  ran  the  places,  and  I  have  seen  letters  some 
of  them  have  received."  She  looked  quickly  at  the  two 
men  to  see  how  they  would  receive  her  remarks. 

Her  husband  did  not  reply,  and  the  Reverend  Smol- 
let,  feeling  her  inquiring  eyes  on  him,  said  in  a  flat, 
noncommittal  voice:  "Well,  that  may  be  barely  pos- 
sible." 

The  woman  then  went  on:  "I  talked  a  long  time  to 
one  girl,  and  I  know  she  is  not  altogether  vicious.  She 
was  pretty  and  there  was  something  sweet  about  her  ex- 
pression. She  had  brown  eyes  and  the  face  of  a  little 
child.  Do  you  know  what  she  told  me  ?  She  said,  'I  got 
into  this  life  rather  by  degrees,  and  if  I  ever  get  out  of 
it,  it  will  be  in  the  same  way.'  Of  course  I  could  give 
her  no  comfort  or  hope,  knowing  what  Elijah's  and  Mr. 
Gleason's  plans  were.  Even  to-night  she  may  be  locked 
up  in  jail  with  no  chance  of  getting  out  of  her  present 
life — by  degrees.  I  offered  to  help  her  financially,  but 
she  said  she  couldn't  accept  any  help — that  it  wouldn't  do 
her  any  good  anyway.  I  think  she  meant  it  would  be 
46 


The  Upright  Man 

taken  away  from  her.  What  she  wanted,  I  believe,  was 
something  that  wasn't  measured  by  money." 

Neither  of  the  men  spoke.  Elijah  Bradshaw  tapped 
quietly  on  the  desk.  It  was  an  indication — known  to  all 
his  business  associates — that  he  was  irritated  and  an- 
noyed. 

"At  another  house,"  the  woman  went  on,  "we  heard  of 
a  poor  girl  who  is  soon  to  become  a  mother.  I  had 
never  thought  of  one  of  those  girls  as  a  mother.  Some- 
how the  wonder  of  motherhood  seemed  so  far  removed 
from  anything  in  their  sordid  lives.  We  went  to  the 
woman  in  charge  of  the  house  and  offered  to  take  care 
of  the  girl.  It  was  all  we  could  do.  But  even  that  was 
not  permitted  us.  'No,  thank  you/  the  woman  said  to 
us,  somewhat  coldly.  'Don't  let  such  things  as  that 
worry  you.  The  girl  will  be  cared  for.  The  Tenderloin 
takes  care  of  its  own.  .  .  .  Even  we — good  people — 
don't  always  go  as  far  as  that.' " 

"They  have  their  own  system  of  ethics,  I  imagine." 
It  was  Elijah  Bradshaw  who  spoke.  "Those  are  minor 
things — a  sort  of  honour  among  thieves.  The  whole 
question  goes  much  deeper  than  that." 

"I  suppose  it  does."  His  wife's  tone  was  hopeless. 
"Everything  I've  done  has  seemed  so  futile.  Every- 
where we  went  to-day  we  were  treated  civilly,  but  coldly. 
It  was  the  same  story  over  and  over  again.  They  didn't 
want  money ;  they  didn't  want  anything  that  we  could  do 
for  them  in  that  way.  What  they  seemed  to  want  was 
human  compassion — a  chance.  We  could  make  no  head- 
way. I  have  a  feeling  to-night  as  if  our  mission  had  been 
a  failure." 

"It  serves  you  right."  Bradshaw's  tone,  for  the  first 
time  during  the  interview,  was  stern.  "I  told  you  not  to 

47 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

go  prowling  around  down  there.  Those  people  are  be- 
yond help.  Their  sense  of  decency  is  dead.  They  be- 
long to  the  pest-house,  and  the  sooner  they  are  sent  there, 
the  better." 

Mrs.  Bradshaw  drew  herself  up  as  if  she  resented 
her  husband's  words,  and  when  she  spoke,  her  voice  had 
lost  its  tentativeness. 

"I  am  not  so  sure,  Elijah,"  she  said,  looking  straight 
at  him.  "My  experience  to-day  has  given  me  a  broader 
vision.  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  I  am  no  bet- 
ter than  the  women  of  the  underworld,  only  that  I  have 
been  more  fortunate  than  they  in  that  circumstances  have 
not  at  any  time  put  me  face  to  face  with  the  necessity  of 
earning  my  living — in  their  way."  Then  she  cautioned 
quickly:  "Don't  misunderstand  me — nor  you  either,  Dr. 
Smollet." 

She  turned  for  a  moment  to  the  other  man  and  then 
faced  her  husband  again  with  a  little  defiance  in  her  atti- 
tude. 

"Because  I  have  been  spared  such  an  existence  it 
seems  to  me  now  that  I  ought  to  deal  gently  with  those 
of  my  sisters  who  have  not  been  so  fortunate  as  I.  They 
are  human  just  as  I  am  human,  and  they  should  be 
treated  humanely." 

Bradshaw  tried  to  pass  the  matter  off  lightly  and 
shrugged  his  shoulders  deprecatingly.  He  refused  to 
take  her  words  with  any  marked  degree  of  seriousness. 

But  Smollet  was  genuinely  shocked.  His  instinct  was 
to  rebuke  the  woman  before  him,  but  that  he  could  not 
do,  so  he  said  merely :  "Mrs.  Bradshaw,  I  am  surprised 
to  hear  you  talk  this  way." 

The  woman  glanced  at  him  sharply.  She  was  defend- 
ing a  cause  which  she  believed  in,  and  there  was  a  little 
48 


The  Upright  Man 


excitement  in  her  voice.  She  arose  and  turned  to  the 
minister. 

"You  shouldn't  be  surprised,  Dr.  Smollet,"  she  said 
resolutely,  "for  what  I  say  is  true.  With  men,  perhaps, 
it  is  different,  but  when  I  look  back  over  my  youth  I  can 
see  now  that  there  were  times  when,  if  circumstances 
had  not  intervened,  I  would  have  made  a  false  step — a 
step  that  might  have  led  to  just  the  sort  of  thing  I  have 
seen  to-day." 

Bradshaw  was  now  on  his  feet.  He  smiled  broadly 
at  his  wife's  words,  and  going  to  her  put  his  arm  around 
her. 

"Can  you  imagine  such  a  thing,  Smollet?"  he  asked 
laughingly. 

The  other  man  caught  the  tenor  of  Bradshaw's  re- 
mark and  smiled  also,  shaking  his  head. 

"Really,  Mrs.  Bradshaw,"  he  said  in  mock  serious- 
ness, "if  you  persist  you  will  have  your  husband  curious 
as  to  details." 

As  he  spoke  the  bell  rang. 

"Hello!  that's  probably  Gleason  now,"  he  remarked. 
"Are  you  going  over  with  us,  Bradshaw  ?  .  .  .  And  you, 
Mrs.  Bradshaw — will  you  be  ready  to  go  with  us?  We 
will  gladly  wait  for  you." 

Outside  in  the  hallway  a  boisterous,  good-natured 
and  confident  voice  was  saying :  "Never  mind,  my  man. 
I  know  the  combination." 

At  almost  the  same  moment  Jimmy  Gleason,  the  evan- 
gelist, entered  the  room  briskly,  his  soft  felt  hat  in  his 
hand.  He  was  a  large,  athletic-looking  man  with  loose- 
fitting  clothes  and  a  low  collar.  His  hair  gave  signs  of 
having  been  combed  hurriedly.  His  features  were  rough 
and  had  about  them  a  certain  aggressive  power.  He 

49 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

came  of  a  different  class  of  society  from  that  of  either 
of  the  two  other  men  in  the  room.  He  possessed  none 
of  the  quietness  and  dignity  which  characterises  the  man 
of  cultural  training.  He  might  have  been  a  successful 
contractor,  an  overseer  of  workingmen,  or  a  foreman  in 
a  factory  where  heavy  and  difficult  work  was  done. 

"Hello,  everybody!"  he  called  swaggeringly,  as  he 
entered.  "Howdy,  Mrs.  Bradshaw.  .  .  .  Ready,  Smol- 
let?  We're  'way  behind  the  schedule.  Couldn't  shake 
those  newspaper  guys  off.  They're  a  pest.  Some  day 
I'll  clean  them  up  too.  But  say!  You  should  see  the 
crowd  righting  to  get  into  the  show  to-night.  It'll  be 
the  biggest  camp-meeting  yet.  That  raid  last  night  got 
'em  all  stirred  up.  To-night  there'll  be  another  big  blow- 
off.  We'll  ring  the  curfew  on  our  scarlet  sisters  before 
they  have  time  to  comb  their  hair." 

Mrs.  Bradshaw,  with  a  pleasant  nod,  left  the  room 
quietly  to  put  on  her  coat  and  hat. 

When  she  had  gone  Smollet  said  to  Gleason:  "You 
should  have  been  here  five  minutes  ago  and  heard  a  re- 
port on  the  human  side  of  these  women." 

"Heard  'em  all  my  life,"  Gleason  replied  impatiently. 
"Platitudes  never  yet  cleaned  up  a  town.  Bradshaw 
knows  that.  Didn't  he  try  it  for  three  weeks  before  I 
went  to  bat  here?" 

"By  the  way,  Gleason,"  Bradshaw  answered,  "the 
Star  wants  a  statement  from  me 

"Give  it  to  'em,  give  it  to  'em!"  The  evangelist 
laughed  and  waved  his  arms.  "And  put  plenty  of  shrap- 
nel and  nitro-glycerine  in  it.  Every  little  bit  helps." 

Mrs.  Bradshaw  re-entered  the  room. 

"I'm  ready,  gentlemen,"  she  announced. 

"Where's  Paul  and  Elizabeth?"  Bradshaw  asked. 
SO 


The  Upright  Man 

"They'll  leave  for  the  Tabernacle  in  five  minutes,"  the 
mother  said.  "Elizabeth  is  going  to  wear  a  new  dress 
to-night,  and  it's  taking  her  longer  than  usual  to  get  it 
ready.  I  told  Paul  to  wait  for  her.  They'll  join  us 
presently." 

"Well,  then,  we're  off,  friends !"  sang  out  Gleason 
jovially,  putting  on  his  hat. 

The  four  walked  out  into  the  cold  October  night. 


CHAPTER  III 

YOUNG    LOVE   AT   SPRING 

SCARCELY  had  they  quit  the  house,  when  Bellamy 
came  up  hurriedly  and  rang  the  bell. 

"Otto,"  he  said  to  the  man,  "tell  Miss  Elizabeth  I'm 
here." 

Otto  turned  and  went  upstairs,  a  faint  and  sagacious 
smile  on  his  face. 

Bellamy  walked  into  the  living  room  and  looked  out  of 
the  window  guardedly  at  the  retreating  figures.  He  had 
met  Elizabeth  Bradshaw  four  years  before.  She  was 
then  only  a  little  girl  in  short  dresses  and  with  curls 
hanging  down  her  back.  Her  prettiness  had  attracted 
him ;  and  on  many  occasions,  because  of  his  intimacy  with 
Paul,  her  brother,  he  had  been  thrown  in  contact  with 
her.  He  had  treated  her  like  a  big  brother,  had  helped 
her  sometimes  with  her  school  tasks,  and  had  held  her 
spell-bound  with  stories  of  adventure  connected  with  his 
newspaper  work.  She  had  liked  him  genuinely  from  the 
first. 

When  she  was  older  Bellamy  would  sometimes  come 
to  the  boarding-school  in  the  afternoons  and  walk  home 
with  her.  For  many  reasons  he  never  spoke  of  love  to 
her.  First,  she  was  too  young.  Again,  she  had  never 
given  any  indication  that  she  considered  him  other  than 
a  jovial  companion,  and  he  was  afraid  of  spoiling  the 
friendship  which,  more  and  more  as  the  months  went  by, 
52 


Young  Love  at  Spring 

became  an  integral  and  important  part  of  his  life.  He 
hesitated  also  because  of  her  position  and  that  of  her 
father. 

Like  most  young  newspaper  men  he  was  poor,  even  to 
the  point  of  finding  it  difficult  to  live  within  his  income. 
He  had  nothing  to  offer  her  but  himself,  and  he  was  not 
at  all  sure  that  she  desired  him.  And  again,  the  fact  that 
she  was  the  daughter  of  a  very  wealthy  man  brought  to 
the  fore  in  him  a  sense  of  chivalry  which  made  him  hesi- 
tate in  taking  the  initiative  in  so  unequal  an  alliance. 
But  a  deeper  reason  than  all  these  held  him  to  the  pres- 
ent course  of  his  platonic  relations  with  the  girl — he  did 
not  know  whether  he  himself  truly  loved  her  or  not. 
She  fascinated  him,  and  her  beauty  appealed  to  him. 
Her  sweetness  and  tenderness,  too,  affected  him  deeply. 
She  was  such  a  child ;  there  was  so  little  of  the  woman 
in  her  that  he  often  wondered  whether  his  infatuation 
was  not,  after  all,  superficial. 

During  the  last  year,  however,  all  doubts  as  to  the 
genuineness  of  his  affection  vanished.  He  could  not 
banish  the  girl's  features  from  his  mind.  She  was  con- 
stantly before  him — in  the  office,  when  he  walked  the 
streets,  even  during  his  moments  of  diversion.  He 
dreamed  of  her  constantly.  Often  his  mind  would  un- 
consciously go  off  on  a  train  of  thought,  and  he  would 
catch  himself  dreaming  of  their  future  together,  plan- 
ning splendid  and  fantastic  hours  of  pleasure  with  her 
as  his  sole  companion. 

He  called  as  often  as  he  dared  at  the  Bradshaw  home. 
Sometimes  he  was  able  to  be  with  the  girl  alone,  but  it 
was  only  for  brief  intervals.  There  was  always  some  one 
else  nearby,  and  he  was  unable  to  tell  her  what  was  in 
his  heart,  even  if  he  were  sure  that  he  wanted  to.  Al- 

53 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

ready  a  feeling  of  protection  and  loyalty  had  grown  up 
in  him.  Although  he  did  not  admit  it  to  himself,  he 
knew  that  the  day  would  come,  as  inevitably  as  death, 
when  he  would  go  to  her  and  pour  out  all  the  pent-up 
emotions  which  she  had  aroused  in  him. 

One  day,  on  an  excursion  down  the  river  In  which  a 
number  of  the  young  people  participated,  he  was  left 
alone  with  her.  Together  they  had  walked  along  the 
green  and  mossy  shore  until  the  others  had  been  left  be- 
hind. When  they  had  come  to  an  old  white  bridge  below 
the  city,  where  the  water  was  deep  and  calm,  they  had 
stepped  out  on  it  and  leaned  over  the  railing,  watching 
their  reflections  in  the  water.  She  had  woven  for  him  a 
wreath  of  wild  flowers,  and  some  of  the  petals  had  fallen 
into  the  water  and  floated  silently  away.  As  they  stood 
watching,  a  silence  had  crept  between  them,  and  some 
subtle  impulse  had  drawn  him  to  her.  He  felt  the  warm 
touch  of  her  body  against  his,  and  he  had  looked  up  at 
her  face  suddenly,  as  if  she  had  been  some  wild  creature 
who  had  just  appeared  to  him  out  of  the  purple  fast- 
nesses of  the  cool  wood. 

The  sunlight  fell  upon  her  hair,  which  was  a  mixture 
of  gold  and  bronze.  Her  large  leghorn  hat  hung  about 
her  shoulders,  held  by  a  black  satin  ribbon.  A  serious- 
ness, which  he  had  never  noted  before,  had  come  into 
her  expression.  Though  apparently  she  was  looking 
down  at  the  surface  of  the  river,  her  eyes  seemed  to  see 
things  which  were  far  beyond  her  range  of  vision.  The 
air  was  still  with  the  lassitude  of  mid-summer.  A  slight 
haze  of  heat  hung  about  the  tops  of  the  surrounding  hills. 
From  the  distance  came  the  perpetual  murmur  of  the 
city,  and  the  inarticulate  talk  and  laughter  of  the  other 
members  of  the  party.  Overhead  in  the  tall  trees  an 
54 


Young  Love  at  Spring 

occasional  bird  would  start  singing,  but  would  suddenly 
become  silent  as  if  it  were  unable  to  combat  the  lethargy 
of  the  season. 

Bellamy  had  taken  the  girl's  hand  in  his,  where  she  let 
it  rest  passively  without  so  much  as  looking  at  him  or 
making  a  movement  to  indicate  that  she  had  been  aware 
of  his  action.  At  that  moment  he  knew  that  his  whole 
life  had  been  but  a  prelude  to  the  possession  of  the  girl 
at  his  side.  All  that  was  best  in  him  came  to  the  surface. 
But  although  many  wrords  of  endearment  crowded  to  his 
lips,  he  was  caught  in  the  mesmerism  of  the  silence  about 
him  and  uttered  no  sound. 

As  they  stood  close  to  each  other,  held  in  the  silent 
spell  of  young  love,  a  squirrel  leapt  from  a  branch  of  a 
tree  overhanging  the  bridge  and  ran  along  the  railing 
toward  them.  The  girl  moved  quickly  and  laughed  joy- 
ously. Her  hand  was  withdrawn.  The  mood  was  bro- 
ken ;  and  they  began  to  chatter  of  impersonal  things. 

From  that  day  forward,  although  no  direct  word  of 
love  had  passed  from  one  to  the  other,  an  unspoken 
understanding  had  grown  up  between  them.  They  had 
always  called  each  other  by  their  first  names — that  is, 
Bellamy  called  her  Bess,  after  the  manner  of  the  mem- 
bers of  her  family;  and  she  had  always  called  him  what 
her  brother  called  him — Jack.  But  even  into  this  familiar- 
ity, which  had  heretofore  carried  with  it  no  significance, 
a  new  meaning  had  entered.  When  Bellamy  brought  her 
flowers,  or  did  little  favours  for  her,  there  was  an  added 
intimacy  and  tenderness  in  his  actions.  And  when  she 
thanked  him  she  would  look  at  him  with  eyes  into  which 
had  crept  a  new  point  of  view. 

Thus,  with  no  word  or  action  indicative  of  their  pas- 
sion, they  had  in  their  hearts  drawn  close  and  closer  to 

55 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

each  other.  Bellamy  was  able  to  understand  the  psycho- 
logical development  of  the  situation,  but  the  girl  had  not 
questioned  the  atmosphere  which  surrounded  their  rela- 
tionship. The  thought  of  love  had  not  presented  itself 
to  her.  Due  to  the  strictness  with  which  she  was  guarded 
by  her  father,  the  younger  men  of  Edenburg  had  never 
been  able  to  carry  on  a  flirtation  with  her.  She  knew, 
however,  that  she  liked  Bellamy,  that  she  felt  happy  and 
secure  when  he  was  near  her,  that  when  he  touched  her 
she  experienced  a  new  kind  of  thrill.  At  the  private 
dances  which  the  young  people  of  the  city  gave,  and 
which  she  was  sometimes  permitted  to  attend,  she  ac- 
cepted without  self-inquiry  the  fact  that  she  preferred 
to  dance  with  Bellamy. 

She  never  analysed  her  emotions.  She  accepted  them 
as  a  desirable  addenda  to  her  girlhood.  Therefore,  in 
her  desire  to  see  Bellamy  as  often  as  she  could,  she  was 
franker  than  she  would  have  been  had  she  known  of  the 
great  current  of  sex  which  ran  beneath  her  desires. 
Often  she  would  call  up  Bellamy  by  telephone  on  nights 
when  her  father  was  to  be  away,  and  ask  him  to  call. 
The  presence  or  absence  of  Elijah  Bradshaw  had  become 
a  joke  with  them,  and  without  consciousness  of  disloy- 
alty she  frequently  planned  to  see  Bellamy  at  times  when 
her  father  could  not  interfere.  Such  meetings  were  not 
in  any  sense  clandestine,  for  they  were  always  in  her 
home.  At  bottom  they  were  sufficiently  innocent  to 
lay  at  rest  any  qualms  which  Bellamy  might  have 
had,  had  it  occurred  to  him  that  he  was  acting  under- 
handedly. 

For  instance,  to-night  Elizabeth  had  asked  Bellamy  to 
call  and  go  with  her  to  the  Tabernacle.  She  had  told 
him  to  wait  until  her  mother  and  father  had  left,  so  that 
56 


Young  Love  at  Spring 

she  might  walk  over  with  him  alone  and  be  beside  him 
during  the  meeting.  She  had  purposely  delayed  her  toilet 
lest  she  should  be  compelled  to  go  with  the  others. 

Bellamy  had  fallen  in  with  her  scheme  without  a  sense 
of  guilt.  In  his  heart  he  was  loyal  to  the  girl.  He  would 
have  fought  as  hard  as  her  father  before  he  would  have 
let  any  harm  come  to  her.  Paul,  too,  knew  of  his  sister's 
little  deceits,  but  he  liked  Bellamy  more  than  any  young 
man  he  knew,  and  trusted  him  implicitly.  The  brother 
therefore  often  assisted  good-naturedly  with  their  plans. 
He  sympathised  with  his  sister's  lack  of  freedom,  often 
protesting  to  his  father  about  it. 

"Things  have  changed,  father,"  he  would  say,  "since 
you  and  mother  were  young.  A  girl  ought  to  be  allowed 
to  go  out  and  have  friends  and  meet  people  and  not  be 
treated  like  a  nun.  Bess  is  the  only  girl  in  Edenburg 
who  is  kept  in  all  the  time  and  forbidden  to  do  every- 
thing she  wants  to  do." 

And  Elijah  Bradshaw  had  answered:  "Customs  may 
have  changed,  but  what  is  right  never  changes.  It  is 
proper  for  a  man  to  have  more  or  less  freedom,  but  I 
won't  have  any  daughter  of  mine  running  around,  pick- 
ing up  false  ideals  and  losing  all  her  modesty.  .  .  .  Now 
go  on  about  your  business." 

As  Bellamy  turned  from  the  window,  Elizabeth  came 
running  down  the  stairs. 

"Hello,  Jack,"  she  called,  giving  him  her  hand.  "I 
came  pretty  near  not  seeing  you  to-night.  Mother  in- 
sisted that  I  go  with  them.  .  .  .  Mr.  Gleason  himself 
was  here." 

"Don't  7  know?"  Bellamy  laughed  back.  "I  waited 
ten  minutes  round  the  corner  till  I  saw  them  come  out". 
I  thought  maybe  they  were  waiting  for  you  and  wouldn't 

57 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

leave  without  you.  ...  I  was  awfully  glad  when  I  saw 
they  had  left  you  behind." 

"Well,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  this  new  dress,"  the  girl 
explained,  "I'm  afraid  mother  would  have  gotten  angry 
and  suspected  something.  .  .  .  How  do  you  like  it?" 

She  turned  gaily  around  two  or  three  times,  stopping 
now  and  then  to  pose  like  the  models  she  had  seen  in  the 
fashion  shows. 

"Beautiful!"  commented  Bellamy.  "You  are  beautiful 
to-night  .  .  .  but  you  would  be  beautiful  in  anything." 

"You  mustn't  talk  that  way,"  the  girl  admonished  him. 
"Not  even  mother  is  in  the  house  to-night.  Paul  is  our 
only  chaperon." 

"Well,  if  that's  the  case,  Bess,"  Bellamy  replied,  smil- 
ing, "I'll  just  think  how  beautiful  you  are — and  always 
are,  and  how  wonderful  you  are,  too,  and  how  sweet  you 
are.  You  can't  scold  me  if  I  don't  say  those  things,  can 
you  ?  So,  I'll  just  think  them  all  to  myself." 

The  girl  pretended  to  pay  no  attention  to  his  remarks 
or  to  take  him  seriously. 

"I  wish  we  didn't  have  to  go  to  that  old  meeting  to- 
night anyway.  I'd  love  to  sit  here  with  you  and  have 
you  read  to  me  and  tell  me  stories.  But  it's  no  use  wish- 
ing. If  I  didn't  go  to  the  meeting  father  would  be  back 
after  me  in  a  minute  to  find  out  what  was  the  matter. 
Then  we  would  catch  it !" 

Bellamy  looked  seriously  at  the  girl. 

"Would  you  really  like  to  sit  here  alone  with  me?" 
he  asked  tenderly. 

"Of  course,  I  would,"  she  answered  lightly.  "I  think 
you're  lots  more  interesting  than  Jimmy  Gleason." 

"Is  that  the  only  reason?"     The  young  man  looked 
straight  into  her  eyes. 
58 


Young  Love  at  Spring 

"Why,  of  course,  silly!"  She  tried  to  hide  her  em- 
barrassment, for  something  in  the  man's  eyes  made  her 
feel  uneasy.  "Why  otherwise  should  I  want  to  be  with 
you?" 

Bellamy  snrugged  his  shoulders  and  laughed. 

"Oh,  well,  I  guess  that's  as  good  a  reason  as  any. 
Anyway,  the  fact  remains  that  you'd  like  to  be  with 
me,  and  that's  consolation  enough  for  a  poor  reporter. 
However,  perhaps  we  can  arrange  to  be  together  to- 
morrow." 

The  girl's  face  brightened. 

"How,  Jack  ?"  she  asked,  not  trying  to  hide  her  eager- 
ness. "To-morrow's  a  holiday,  and  you  know  father'll 
be  here  all  the  time.  It's  no  fun  with  him  around ;  he's 
such  a  grouch." 

"Well,  just  because  it's  a  holiday  is  the  reason  that 
maybe  we  can  be  together.  I'll  tell  you  what  the  plan 
is.  Arnold  Macy — you've  often  heard  me  speak  of  him 
— has  a  new  machine,  a  little  touring  car  which  looks 
almost  like  a  real  automobile;  and  he  wants  to  initiate 
it  by  taking  us  out  to  the  Country  Club — you  and  Paul 
and  me." 

"Oh,  wouldn't  that  be  lovely !"  the  girl  exclaimed.  "I 
really  think  if  Paul  went  with  us  mother  would  give  her 
permission,  and  if  she'd  consent  I  don't  think  father 
would  object.  .  .  .  But  how  does  Mr.  Macy  know  about 
me?  I've  never  seen  him  in  my  life." 

Bellamy  smiled. 

"You're  all  that  I  talk  about  to  him — or  to  any  one 
else,  for  that  matter.  He  wants  very  much  to  meet 
you.  He's  an  awfully  nice  chap — I've  known  him  for 
years.  He  was  the  fellow  I  was  going  to  college  with 
once.  He  met  Paul  the  other  night  and  maybe  that  gave 

59 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

him  the  idea  about  asking  us.  ...  What  do  you  say} 
Will  you  go?" 

"Will  I!"  The  girl  clapped  her  hands  together  in 
anticipation.  Then  of  a  sudden  her  face  darkened.  "If 
only  mother  will  let  me.  .  .  .  I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do — 
I'll  have  Paul  ask  her." 

She  ran  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 

"Paul!  Paul!"  she  called.  "You  old  slow-coach! 
Jack's  down  here  waiting,  and  if  you  don't  hurry  father'll 
be  back  for  us.  ...  And  anyway,"  she  added,  "I've  got 
something  most  important  to  ask  you  ;  so  hurry  up." 

"I'm  coming,  sis,"  answered  a  voice  from  upstairs. 
"Hang  these  old  meetings,  anyway!  I  wish  I  didn't 
have  to  go." 

In  a  moment  he  was  hurrying  downstairs,  pulling  an- 
grily at  his  cravat. 

"If  I  didn't  have  to  dress  up  I  wouldn't  care  so  much. 
.  .  .  Hello,  Jack!"  he  greeted  Bellamy  with  a  friendly 
hand-shake.  "How  do  you  like  going  to  the  big  show 
every  night?" 

"Part  of  my  job,  old  man,"  the  reporter  answered,  in 
good  humour.  "At  any  rate,  I  get  paid  for  going.  .  .  . 
Now  listen,  Paul ;  I  want  you  and  Bess  to  convince  your 
parents  that  it  will  be  perfectly  proper  for  you  both  to 
spend  the  day  at  the  Country  Club  with  Arnold  Macy 
and  me  to-morrow.  We  can  have  a  good  time,  and 
there'll  be  plenty  of  old  snoops  out  there  who  will  act  as 
unofficial  chaperons  in  case  your  mother  has  any  objec- 
tion." 

"You  can  make  mother  let  us  go,  can't  you,  Paul  ?"  the 
girl  put  in  pleadingly.  "I  never  get  out  of  this  old  house 
to  see  anybody  or  have  any  fun." 

"Sure  I  will,  sis,"  her  brother  assured  her  seriously. 
60 


Young  Love  at  Spring 

"And  if  mother  refuses  to  let  you  go,  I'll  threaten  to 
leave  home." 

"There,  there!"  laughed  Bellamy.  "Don't  take  it  so 
seriously.  .  .  .  But  really  I  don't  see  what  harm  there 
could  be." 

"Well,  it  makes  me  sore  the  way  they  treat  Bess." 
Paul  went  into  the  hallway  and  got  his  hat.  "But  we'd 
better  hurry  now  or  father  will  lock  us  both  up  in  our 
rooms  for  six  months,  and  then  we  won't  go  anywhere. 
...  It  makes  me  sore,  I  tell  you!" 

As  they  went  out  Bellamy  took  the  girl's  hand  and 
pressed  it  tenderly,  and  she  returned  the  pressure,  so 
that  all  that  evening  during  Gleason's  sermon,  he  knew 
that  the  speaker  was  wrong — that  Heaven,  in  fact,  was 
on  earth. 


61 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  BITTERNESS  OF  FATHER-LOVE 

THE  next  morning  Arnold  Macy  and  Bellamy  called 
at  the  Bradshaws'.  Elizabeth  had  telephoned 
earlier  that  her  mother  had  given  permission  for  her 
and  Paul  to  go  on  the  proposed  trip.  During  the  night 
the  Indian  Summer  had  made  its  arrival.  Warm,  gentle 
breezes  stirred  along  Edenburg's  streets.  The  sky  was 
almost  cloudless,  and  the  sunshine  was  mellow  and  pleas- 
ant. The  autumn  leaves  were  ablaze  with  red  and  yel- 
low. 

"What  a  wonderful  day  for  a  ride!"  Elizabeth  ex- 
claimed happily  as  she  settled  herself  in  the  rear  seat  with 
Bellamy,  while  Paul  sat  in  front  next  to  Macy. 

"The  day  would  make  no  difference,"  Bellamy  told 
her  tenderly,  so  that  the  others  could  not  hear.  "Any  day 
would  be  wonderful  with  you." 

The  girl  did  not  answer,  but  turned  her  head  away. 
After  Bellamy  had  left  her  the  night  before  she  had 
remembered  his  words,  and  they  had  affected  her 
strangely.  Now,  for  the  first  time,  she  felt  self-conscious 
with  him.  When  he  spoke  as  he  had  just  done  it  made 
her  uncomfortable  and  ill  at  ease.  Yet  she  would  not 
have  had  it  otherwise. 

They  were  soon  in  the  country  beyond  the  straggling 
houses  of  the  city's  suburbs.  The  hills  loomed  before 
them  like  red  banks  of  flame,  and  there  was  just  enough 
62 


The  Bitterness  of  Father-Love 

crispness  in  the  air  to  be  invigorating.  Withal  the  decay 
of  the  year  made  the  girl  a  little  sad;  but  it  was  a  sad- 
ness which  she  liked,  for  it  brought  with  it  a  feeling  of 
tenderness  toward  Bellamy.  Even  now  she  did  not  know 
why  she  felt  toward  him  as  she  did.  He  had  uttered  no 
word  of  love  to  her,  and  she  was  unconscious  that  the 
great  emotion  had  entered  her  heart.  There  was,  per- 
haps, too  much  familiarity  in  their  relationship.  She 
had  known  him  too  long;  the  growth  of  her  love  had 
been  too  gradual  for  her  to  realise  it  fully.  It  lacked 
the  novelty  of  a  sudden  and  tempestuous  courtship.  But 
her  feelings  made  her  content,  and  the  freedom  she  felt 
in  being  away  from  her  home  and  from  under  the  super- 
vision of  her  parents,  added  to  this  contentment.  To-day 
she  was  at  peace  with  the  world. 

For  nearly  two  hours  they  drove  about  the  hills,  on  the 
open  roadways,  over  the  crackling  leaves,  along  yellow 
meadows,  beside  the  deep  green  river,  through  lanes  of 
overhanging  trees.  Elizabeth  and  Bellamy  talked  little. 
All  words  seemed  inadequate  to  express  the  magic  of 
her  emotions.  Sometimes  when  a  beautiful  vista  ef 
colour  appeared  before  them,  she  would  call  his  attention 
to  it,  and  he  would  look  at  it  with  her  and  comment 
briefly.  Once,  when  they  were  passing  along  a  precipice 
over  the  river,  she  drew  back  a  little  in  fright,  so  that 
her  body  was  close  against  his.  Bellamy's  arm  went 
about  her  protectingly,  and  she  accepted  his  action  as  a 
natural  thing,  and  did  not  object.  When  the  precipice 
had  been  passed  she  drew  gently  away.  During  the  trip 
she  reached  out  from  time  to  time  and  broke  off  little 
branches  of  crimson  leaves.  When  she  had  reached  the 
Club  House  her  lap  was  filled  with  the  last  colourful 
glories  of  the  passing  year. 

63 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

"I  am  so  happy  to-day!"  she  breathed  gently,  as  they 
turned  into  the  long  gravel  roadway  which  led  through 
the  Club  grounds. 

Bellamy  looked  at  her,  seriously  wondering  to  himself 
how  far  he  might  be  responsible  for  her  happiness.  He 
loved  the  girl  deeply,  and  that  love  had  become  a  vital 
and  accepted  factor  of  his  life.  Not  once  had  he  let 
himself  think  that  she  did  not  care  for  him  also,  for  the 
thought  would  have  pained  him  too  profoundly.  As  he 
looked  at  her  it  suddenly  occurred  to  him  that  he  had 
never  spoken  to  her  of  his  love,  and  he  resolved  that, 
before  the  day  was  over,  he  would  tell  her  everything — 
all  his  hopes  and  dreams. 

The  machine  drew  up  suddenly  and  Macy  leaped  out, 
apologising  for  his  inexpertness  as  a  driver. 

"I'll  warrant  I  have  bumped  you  people  frightfully!" 
His  tone  was  pleasant,  a  little  too  pleasant ;  but  there  was 
in  his  manner  that  assurance  which  was  one  of  his  chief 
attractions  with  everybody  he  met. 

He  was  a  handsome  man  and  dressed  in  good  taste. 
He  had  about  him  a  Continental  air  and  a  distinction 
which  made  him  conspicuous  even  among  the  better  class 
of  young  men  in  Edenburg.  His  eyes  were  grey  and  in- 
different. His  features  were  regular,  and  there  was  a  cleft 
in  his  oval  chin.  His  hair  was  very  dark  and  always  care- 
fully combed.  He  wore  a  slender  moustache  which  was 
always  kept  carefully  waxed,  giving  him  a  nonchalant 
and  somewhat  rakish  appearance.  He  was  well-informed, 
quick  at  repartee,  genial,  and,  at  times,  brilliant  in  his 
speech.  He  had  a  decidedly  cosmopolitan  bearing,  was 
plausible  and  convincing,  and  adjusted  himself  nicely  in 
any  gathering  in  which  he  found  himself. 

At  first  Elizabeth  Bradshaw  had  paid  but  little  atten- 
64 


The  Bitterness  of  Father-Love 

tion  to  him,  secure  and  content  in  her  liking  for  Bellamy ; 
but  at  luncheon,  when  Macy  began  to  talk,  she  found  her- 
self giving  him  most  of  her  interest.  He  easily  domi- 
nated the  conversation  by  talking  of  things  with  which 
the  others  were  unfamiliar.  He  spoke  of  the  cities  of 
Europe  and  of  his  five  years  of  travel,  telling  of  the  cus- 
toms abroad,  and  painting  glowing  pictures  of  the  little 
out-of-the-way  places  in  Europe.  He  compared  the  Con- 
tinental customs  with  those  of  America,  and  always  there 
was  in  his  remarks  a  little  deprecation  for  the  country 
of  his  birth.  He  was  an  interesting  talker  and  seemed 
to  know  intuitively  the  things  which  would  fire  the  girl's 
imagination. 

For  a  long  time  he  dwelt  on  the  beauties  and  charm  of 
Paris.  He  depicted  the  attractions  of  Saint-Germain  in 
the  springtime,  the  wonder  of  Sevres  and  of  St.  Cloud. 
He  told  of  the  little  boats  that  went  down  the  Seine 
carrying  picnickers  to  the  quaint  restaurants  in  the  gar- 
dens below  the  city,  of  the  crowded  boulevards  on  fete 
nights,  of  the  funny  New  Year's  celebrations  along  the 
Avenue  du  Maine,  of  the  multicoloured  bazaars  about  the 
Madeleine,  of  the  fountain  in  the  Luxembourg  mottled 
with  the  sailing  boats  of  children,  of  the  reckless  and 
care-free  student  life  of  Montparnasse,  of  the  frank 
joviality  of  the  Bal  Bullier,  of  the  great  lines  of  chestnut 
trees  in  the  Petit  Luxembourg,  of  the  quaint  old  book- 
stalls along  the  quays.  .  .  . 

Elizabeth  Bradshaw  listened  intently,  fascinated  by  his 
recital  of  the  wonders  which  she  had  never  beheld.  All 
the  while  she  was  comparing  his  descriptions  of  Paris 
with  the  scenes  of  Edenburg;  and  her  heart  beat  a  little 
faster  and  a  flush  of  joyous  excitement  came  into  her 
cheeks  as  she  looked  forward  with  glad  anticipation  to 

65 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

that  day — somewhere  in  the  nebulous  future — when  she 
herself  would  see  and  be  part  of  the  life  which  Macy 
limned. 

She  asked  him  many  questions  of  Europe,  about 
Vienna  and  Berlin  and  London.  He  answered  her  readily 
and  enthusiastically,  aware  that  his  words  were  thrilling 
her  and  that  he  had  caught  her  in  the  mesh  of  his  vivid 
descriptions.  He  painted  pictures  for  her  of  the  dance 
carnivals  of  Vienna,  of  the  mask  balls  and  the  flower 
parades  during  "Faschingzeit,"  and  of  the  many  pleas- 
ures in  the  Kaisergarten  during  the  summer  evenings. 
He  related  how  in  the  early  mornings  the  German  re- 
cruits in  their  new  uniforms  came  out  to  parade  over 
the  dewy  lawns  in  the  Englishergarten  and  of  breakfast 
under  the  trees.  And  when  she  asked  him  about  Berlin, 
he  told  her  of  the  extravagant  beauties  of  the  "Palais 
de  Danse,"  of  the  parades  along  Unter  den  Linden,  and 
of  the  wonderful  drives  among  the  trees  and  monuments 
in  the  Tiergarten. 

And  all  the  while  the  girl  was  becoming  more  and  more 
enthralled.  Her  present  life  for  the  moment  appeared  to 
her  cramped  and  unlovely.  She  had  a  sudden  intense 
longing  to  get  away  from  it  all,  to  go  to  these  cities  of 
which  she  had  heard,  to  forget  that  there  ever  was  such 
a  place  as  Edenburg — Edenburg  with  its  paltry  parks, 
its  uninviting  streets,  its  narrowness  and  gossiping,  its 
deep  concern  with  things  which  did  not  seem  of  matter, 
its  lack  of  charm  and  its  petty  ways  and  habits. 

During  the  luncheon  Bellamy  had  said  little.  He  him- 
self had  been  interested  in  Macy's  talk,  but  he  had  seen 
its  effect  upon  the  girl  and  he  was  not  altogether  pleased. 
He  knew  he  was  not  Macy's  equal  in  point  of  physical 
attractiveness,  and  he  was  conscious  of  the  fact  that  he 
66 


The  Bitterness  of  Father-Love 

lacked  the  suavity  of  manner  which  characterised  the 
other.  And  what  he  thought  to  be  the  narrowness  of  his 
own  life,  as  compared  with  that  of  Macy's,  had  its  effect 
upon  him.  He  did  not  resent  Macy's  presence  personally ; 
he  liked  the  man.  But  he  felt  that  a  dangerous  element 
had  temporarily  entered  into  his  relationship  with  the 
girl — an  element  which  might  influence  her  when  he 
should  tell  her  of  his  love. 

He  had  made  his  resolve,  however,  and  that  after- 
noon as  they  walked  along  the  shaded  hedges  around  the 
Club  House  he  had  an  opportunity.  Paul  and  Macy 
had  diverged  from  the  path  to  reconnoitre  among  the 
burrs  beneath  an  old  chestnut  tree.  Bellamy  put  his 
hand  on  the  girl's  arm  and  drew  her  around  so  that  she 
faced  him. 

"Bess,"  he  began  tenderly,  but  with  determination,  "I 
want  you  to  marry  me.  I  have  never  had  the  courage  to 
tell  you  before  to-day,  but  it  seems  as  if  I  could  wait  no 
longer.  .  .  .  You  do  care  for  me,  don't  you  ?" 

A  perplexed  look  came  into  the  girl's  face,  as  if  she 
had  not  altogether  understood  the  import  of  his  words. 

"It  will  mean,"  the  young  man  went  on,  "that  we  will 
always  be  together,  that  we  won't  have  to  wait  to  see 
each  other,  and  plot  and  plan  as  we  do  now.  .  .  .  Maybe 
you  have  never  thought  of  me  in  just  the  way  I  have  of 
you,  but  I  will  make  you  happy,  dear  child.  I'll  take 
care  of  you  and  look  after  you.  .  .  .  Tell  me,  may  I  go 
to  your  father  to-morrow  and  tell  him  that  I  love 
you?" 

Something  caught  in  the  girl's  throat.  His  words  had 
inspired  her  with  fear.  And  yet  the  realisation  slowly 
came  to  her  that  she  had  always  been  waiting  for  him 
to  say  just  the  thing  he  had.  Even  now  she  did  not  look 

67 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

upon  his  request  altogether  with  seriousness,  nor  did  she 
stop  to  consider  the  tremendous  importance  which  his 
words  carried.  She  only  knew  that  she  would  like  to  be 
with  him  always. 

"If  you  really  want  me,  Jack,"  she  answered  tenderly, 
and  her  eyes  dropped  before  his,  "you  can  have  me." 

Bellamy  would  have  taken  her  in  his  arms  had  not  the 
others  joined  them  at  that  moment. 

The  afternoon  was  well  along  and  Macy  asked  :  "Shall 
we  drive  back  now  ?  We  can  take  a  long  detour  through 
the  Arden  Woods,  and  that  will  just  get  us  home  before 
dark." 

The  others  agreed  and  they  turned  their  steps  back  to 
the  Club  House. 

"Won't  you  let  Miss  Bradshaw  sit  in  front  with  me?" 
Macy  asked  pleasantly  when  they  were  about  to  enter 
the  machine.  "It's  only  fair,  you  know,  Bellamy.  You 
had  her  company  all  the  way  out." 

Bellamy,  secure  and  happy  in  his  love  and  the  girl's 
promise,  agreed  pleasantly.  In  another  minute  they  were 
on  their  way  home. 

During  the  ride  Macy  asked  Elizabeth  if  he  might  call 
that  evening.  She  wanted  to  hear  more  of  his  stories 
about  Europe  and  of  the  great  pageant  of  splendid  life 
in  which  she  had  never  shared ;  so  she  told  him  he  might 
come,  and  in  her  consent  was  no  sense  of  disloyalty  to- 
ward the  man  to  whom  she  had  plighted  her  troth.  Her 
permission  had  been  given  simply  and  spontaneously. 

Macy  came  early  that  night.  Elijah  Bradshaw  and 
his  wife  had  driven  to  Judge  Bascomb's  for  dinner,  and 
when  Macy  arrived  they  had  not  yet  returned. 

"It's  good  of  you  to  let  me  come,"  Macy  said  easily, 
as  he  sat  down  near  the  girl.  "Do  you  know,  I  really 
68 


The  Bitterness  of  Father-Love 

feel  jealous  of  the  fact  that  Bellamy  has  known  you  so 
much  longer  than  I  have." 

His  words  and  manner  confused  her,  but  she  answered 
pleasantly:  "I  really  feel  as  if  I  had  known  you  ever 
so  long.  I  have  heard  Jack  speak  of  you  so  often.  .  .  . 
And  my  brother  likes  you  too.  So  you  see,  we  are  not 
exactly — strangers." 

"I  have  known  Bellamy  a  good  many  years,"  Macy 
returned.  Then  he  looked  at  her  in  mock  concern.  "I 
hope  his  reports  have  been  favourable." 

"You  know  they  have,  or  he  wouldn't  have  introduced 
you  to  me  to-day.  He  likes  you  very  much." 

"I  am  glad  of  that."  Macy  drew  a  little  nearer  to  her 
and  leaned  forward.  "Particularly  if  his  opinion  is 
likely  to  be  endorsed  by  those  to  whom  he  gives  it." 

Elizabeth  smiled  reassuringly.  "I  have  heard  father 
speak  of  you  too.  You  do  some  business  with  him,  don't 
you?" 

"I  sell  him  bonds  occasionally,"  the  man  told  her. 
"That  is,"  he  added  with  a  laugh,  "I  try  to  sell  him 
bonds.  .  .  .  Tell  me — what  does  he  think  of  me?" 

The  girl  smiled.  "Oh,  father  approves  of  you,  I 
think.  If  he  didn't  you  can  rest  assured  he  would  have 
said  so,  for  father — well,  you  know  what  fathers  are. 
.  .  .  He's  not  as  broad-minded  as  Paul." 

"I  know  what  you  mean."  Macy  leaned  back  and  put 
his  hands  in  his  pockets.  "You  mean  that  if  he  likes  me 
he  is  very  successful  in  concealing  it." 

The  girl  was  obviously  a  little  embarrassed.  "Oh, 
hardly  that,  Mr.  Macy." 

After  a  brief  silence  the  man  looked  at  her  seriously, 
and  his  tone  changed  as  he  asked :  "And  now  that  we 
are  on  the  subject,  what  do  you  think?" 

69 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

The  girl  felt  the  instinct  of  evasion.     "Of  what?" 

"Of  me."    Macy's  voice  was  very  low. 

The  girl  knew  that  in  some  way  she  was  being  led  onto 
dangerous  ground,  and  intuitively  she  extricated  herself 
by  laughing  and  talking  in  a  bantering  tone. 

"Surely  you  can't  expect  me  to  make  up  my  mind  in 
a  minute  about  anything  so  very,  very  important,"  she 
replied. 

The  man  refused  to  meet  her  mood. 

"Why  not  ?"  he  asked,  almost  indifferently.  "First  im- 
pressions are  always  the  safest." 

Elizabeth  was  piqued,  but  she  did  not  know  just  why 
she  should  have  felt  so.  After  a  moment  she  said  in  a 
matter-of-fact  voice:  "Do  you  want  me  to  tell  you, 
really?" 

Macy  simulated  an  air  of  martyrdom. 

"Yes,  tell  me,"  he  replied  tragically,  "my  head  is  bowed 
to  receive  the  blow." 

"Don't  be  foolish,"  the  girl  told  him,  "because — I  like 
you  very  much  .  .  .  that  is,  I  think  I  do.  .  .  .  You  see 
I  have  a  lot  of  faith  in  Jack's  judgment." 

Macy  arose  quickly.  "If  you  like  me,  then  suppose 
you  prove  it  by  going  with  me  to  the  theatre  to-night?" 

"I'd  love  to,  but  I  couldn't  dream  of  it,"  the  girl  an- 
swered at  once.  "With  this  great  moral  upheaval  in 
town,  the  theatre  is  out  of  the  question." 

Macy  turned  and  looked  out  of  the  window. 

"Oh,  yes,  the  moral  upheaval — I  had  forgotten  that. 
It's  really  too  bad,  and  I'm  awfully  sorry.  But  this  man 
Gleason  is  certainly  a  wonder.  They  say  he  cleaned  up  a 
cool  fifty  thousand  in  his  last  town."  He  turned  and 
laughed  lightly.  "That  goes  far  ahead  of  selling  bonds." 

"Shh !"  warned  the  girl,  holding  up  her  finger.    "You 


The  Bitterness  of  Father-Love 

mustn't  let  father  hear  you  say  that.  He  is  the  Chairman 
of  the  Citizens'  Committee.  It  was  father  who  brought 
Mr.  Gleason  to  town.  He  thinks  the  sun  rises  and  sets 
in  Jimmy  Gleason." 

"Well,  I  guess  it  does,"  Macy  commented  indifferently. 
"He  certainly  stirs  them  up  in  every  town.  .  .  .  I'm 
really  awfully  sorry  about  the  show.  You  see,  I  am 
leaving  town  at  the  end  of  the  week." 

Elizabeth  did  not  understand  why  she  should  feel  a 
pang  of  disappointment  when  Macy  told  her  this.  She 
knew  instinctively  that  she  must  not  let  him  discover  the 
fact  that  she  cared,  and  she  forced  herself  to  say  lightly : 
"Can't  even  Mr.  Gleason  keep  you  here?" 

Macy  came  very  close  to  her  and  put  his  hand  lightly 
on  her  shoulder.  She  wanted  to  draw  away  from  him, 
but  an  expression  in  his  eyes  held  her. 

"If  I  stay,"  he  said  very  slowly  and  earnestly,  "it 
wouldn't  be  Gleason  who  would  keep  me." 

The  intimation  in  his  words  made  her  subtly  happy, 
and  yet  she  welcomed  her  brother's  entrance  into  the 
room  at  that  moment. 

Macy  turned,  fully  at  his  ease,  and  said  pleasantly: 
"Bradshaw,  I've  just  been  trying  to  induce  your  sister 
to  go  with  me  to  the  theatre." 

"Soft  pedal  on  the  show  stuff,  if  you  want  to  sell  dad 
any  more  bonds,"  Paul  warned  him  dryly. 

"Well,  anyway,"  said  Elizabeth,  "if  we  can't  go  we 
can  at  least  have  a  little  music  here.  .  .  .  Paul,  start  the 
phonograph,  like  a  good  boy." 

Her  brother  went  to  the  machine  which  stood  in  the 
hallway,  and,  winding  it,  put  on  the  first  record  which 
came  to  his  hand.  It  was  a  lively  modern  dance  number. 

Macy  held  out  his  arms. 

71 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

"Shall  we?"  he  asked. 

The  girl  nodded  her  approval.  Without  a  word  they 
began  dancing. 

They  had  scarcely  commenced  when  the  front  door 
opened  and  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bradshaw  entered. 

"Bessie!"  exclaimed  her  father. 

The  girl,  a  little  flushed,  turned  quickly.  "Mother, 
this  is  Mr.  Macy.  .  .  .  Father,  you  know  Mr.  Macy,  I 
believe  ?" 

Mrs.  Bradshaw  acknowledged  the  introduction  pleas- 
antly; but  Elijah  Bradshaw  stiffened  perceptibly  and  said 
merely,  "How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Macy,"  without  offering 
his  hand. 

"I'm  afraid  I  must  be  going,"  Macy  said  with  a  dig- 
nified smile. 

When  he  had  departed  Bradshaw  turned  angrily  to  his 
daughter.  "Turn  off  that  everlasting  machine." 

She  obeyed  him,  and  then  asked :  "Why  did  you  act 
that  way  to  Mr.  Macy,  father?  I  think  he  is  very  nice, 
and  you  yourself  have  spoken  of  him  to  us." 

"Because  I  do  business  with  him,  does  that  give  him 
the  right  to  call  on  you  here?"  Elijah  Bradshaw  asked 
irritably.  "I  will  tell  him  to  confine  his  affairs  with  this 
family  to  me  at  my  office." 

"Why  are  you  so  hard  on  Bess?"  his  wife  asked  him. 

"It  seems  as  if  you  go  against  me  in  everything,  Mar- 
tha." Bradshaw  sat  down  at  his  desk.  "Who  is  this 
Macy,  anyway  ?"  he  continued.  "He  may  be  married  for 
all  I  know." 

Elizabeth  went  over  to  her  father  and  put  her  arms 
round  him  tenderly.  "Dad,  you  are  cross  to-night." 

Bradshaw  seemed  not  to  be  affected  by  his  daughter's 
devotion. 
72 


The  Bitterness  of  Father-Love 

"None  of  that  now,"  he  said  peremptorily,  taking  her 
arms  from  about  his  shoulders.  "I  know  the  world  and 
you  don't,  my  child.  I've  seen  Macy's  kind  before,  and 
I  don't  want  him  here  again.  .  .  .  That's  final." 

The  girl  pouted.  Crossing  the  room,  she  sat  down  by 
the  table. 

"That's  always  the  way  of  it,"  she  complained.  "Here 
I  am,  shut  up  in  this  house  day  in  and  day  out.  Some- 
times I  think  I'll  go  crazy  with  the  loneliness  of  it.  Other 
girls  go  out  and  have  fun,  but  here  I  have  to  stay.  I  wish 
I  could  go  away — to  Europe,  or  somewhere.  I  might 
as  well  be  in  Sing  Sing  as  to  be  here.  I  might  better 
be  there,  for  there  are  lots  of  interesting  young  men 
there." 

Elijah  Bradshaw  glanced  at  his  daughter  but  did  not 
answer.  He  had  had  scenes  like  this  before,  and  his 
experience  had  taught  him  to  keep  silent.  So  to-night 
he  turned  to  his  work,  resolved  to  ignore  the  girl's  com- 
plaints. 

She,  on  her  part,  picked  up  a  newspaper  from  the  table 
and  held  it  in  front  of  her  ostentatiously. 

"Jimmy  Gleason !  Jimmy  Gleason !"  she  went  on  fret- 
fully. "Nothing  in  the  papers  but  sermons.  .  .  .  How 
very  exciting!"  Her  tone  was  mocking  and  sarcastic. 
"Sermon  for  to-night :  'Double-Crossing  the  Devil !' ' 
Then  she  read  aloud,  imitating  Gleason's  manner :  "  'All 
there  is  in  the  Bible  I  am  going  to  preach.  I'll  give  you 
enough  Hell  before  I  am  through." 

Bradshaw  struck  his  desk  with  his  fist.    "Elizabeth!" 

"I  am  reading  from  this  sermon,"  the  girl  replied 
sweetly. 

"Well,  don't  read  it  in  that  spirit!"  Bradshaw  com- 
manded sternly.  He  glanced  at  the  clock.  "It's  nearly 

73 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

eight,"  he  said.  "You  had  better  get  ready.  You  will 
go  to  the  Tabernacle  with  your  mother  to-night.  Un- 
fortunately, I  have  to  stay  here  and  work." 

Elizabeth  arose  and  left  the  room  resignedly. 

"Come  on,  mother,"  she  said  affectionately  to  the 
older  woman.  "Father  is  as  cross  as  an  old  bear." 

During  the  little  scene  between  Elizabeth  and  her 
father,  Paul  had  been  standing  at  the  window,  frowning 
angrily.  His  sympathies  were  all  with  his  sister.  When 
she  and  the  mother  had  gone  upstairs  he  walked  down 
to  his  father's  desk. 

"And  how  about  me?"  he  asked,  in  a  surly  voice. 
"Have  I  got  to  go  to  the  Tabernacle  again  to-night?'' 

Elijah  Bradshaw  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  re- 
garded the  young  man  fixedly. 

"Paul,  what  has  come  into  you  two  children  ?"  he  asked 
in  pained  anger.  "Haven't  I  done  everything  I  knew 
how  for  you  and  Bess?  I've  worked  all  my  life  for  you. 
I  have  built  up  a  position  for  you.  I  think  of  your  wel- 
fare first  and  foremost.  But  what  thanks  do  I  get  for 
it?  ...  You  combat  me  and  find  fault  constantly.  You 
treat  me  as  if  I  were  your  worst  enemy."  He  brought 
his  hand  down  on  the  arm  of  the  chair.  "But  it's  going 
to  end  here  and  now.  I  am  going  to  run  things  the  way 
I  want  to  in  my  own  home.  I  know  what's  best  for  you 
and  I'm  going  to  see  that  you  act  accordingly.  Heaven 
knows  you  are  treated  leniently  enough.  Half  the  time 
I  don't  know  where  you  are.  Before  Gleason  came  to 
town  neither  I  nor  your  mother  knew  where  you  spent 
your  evenings." 

He  leaned  forward. 

"Now,  listen  to  me.  You  are  going  to  the  Tabernacle 
to-night,  and  you're  going  every  night  that  Gleason's  in 
74 


The  Bitterness  of  Father-Love 

town.  No  arguments  will  help  you.  Here  I've  devoted 
weeks  of  my  time  and  given  my  money  to  pushing  for- 
ward this  work  of  reform,  and  what  will  people  say  when 
my  own  children  don't  take  enough  interest  in  it  even 
to  attend  the  meetings  ?  Do  you  think  I  will  permit  you 
or  Bessie  to  make  a  laughing  stock  of  me?" 

Paul  scowled  and  folded  his  arms. 

"I  have  been  to  these  meetings  often  enough  to  save 
your  reputation,"  he  answered  ironically.  "I've  been 
every  night  for  four  nights,  and  I  think " 

Bradshaw  arose  and  faced  his  son  across  the 
desk. 

"No  matter  what  you  think,  young  man :  you're  going 
just  the  same.  You  know  I  can't  go  to-night.  Already 
my  work  is  piled  up  so  that  it'll  take  me  weeks  to  catch 
up  again,  and  if  I  can't  go  it  would  be  a  nice  thing 
indeed  if  my  family  wasn't  represented."  He  sat  down 
again  in  his  chair.  "I  suppose  your  mind  is  on  that 
burlesque  show  that's  playing  here  now.  But  I  thank 
God  for  your  sake  that  this  city  is  in  for  a  moral  house- 
cleaning.  Every  father  in  Edenburg  should  be  glad  for 
his  son's  sake.  In  two  weeks  there  won't  be  a  remnant 
of  the  vice  district  left." 

Paul  looked  past  his  father  and  sighed  wearily.  The 
older  man  scrutinised  him  for  a  moment. 

"I  hope,  my  boy,"  he  said,  in  a  severe  tone,  "that  you 
have  never  been  guilty  of  going  down  there." 

The  young  man  was  about  to  protest,  but  Elijah  Brad- 
shaw held  up  his  hand  for  silence. 

"Don't  answer  me,"  he  said.  "Whether  you  went  or 
not  you'd  say  you  didn't.  ...  At  any  rate,  I  hope  you 
have  more  respect  for  your  mother  and  sister.  No  father 
is  sure  of  his  children.  He  hopes,  but  he  isn't  sure.  .  .  . 

75 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

Here  come  your  mother  and  sister  now.  Get  your  hat  and 
go  with  them  to  the  Tabernacle." 

"Very  well,"  the  young  man  answered  indifferently. 

He  joined  the  others  at  the  door  and  went  out  with 
them. 

Elijah  Bradshavr  was  left  alone.  He  worked  for  a. 
moment,  then  rang  for  Otto. 

"Put  out  the  lights  in  the  hall,"  he  ordered.  "I  don't 
want  to  be  disturbed.  I'm  not  at  home  to  any  one — 
you  understand  ?  .  .  .  You  may  go  now." 

He  moved  the  desk  lamp  nearer  him.  It  was  the  only 
light  in  his  room.  He  drew  in  front  of  him  the  state- 
ment he  was  preparing  for  the  newspapers.  He  wrote 
steadily  for  a  few  minutes.  Then  he  put  his  pen  aside 
and  held  what  he  had  written  nearer  to  the  light.  He 
was  evidently  pleased  with  it,  for  a  look  of  satisfaction 
came  into  his  face. 

He  began  reading  it  aloud :  "  'In  spite  of  the  silly  sen- 
timentality that  prevails  in  certain  quarters,  these  women 
who  ply  their  unspeakable  trade  must  be  shown  no  pity. 
They  have  forfeited  all  right  to  human  sympathy.  One 
and  all,  they  must  be  driven  from  the  city — ruthlessly, 
remorselessly,  as  we  would  drive  from  our  dooryards  a 
pestilential  criminal  who  sought  to  do  us  bodily  harm.  It 
is  not  pertinent  to  say  that  misfortune  drove  them  to 
this,  or  poverty,  or  betrayed  love,  or  a  predisposition 
passed  down  from  immoral  parents.  We  have  to  deal 
with  effects,  not  with  causes.  And  I  seriously  mistrust 
if  any  of  these  alleged  causes  may  be  substantiated  in 
fact.  Our  misfortunes  are  all  of  our  own  making.  Pov- 
erty is  a  disease  bred  by  laziness;  "betrayed  love"  is  a 
nickname  for  lust,  and  "predisposition"  is  a  cowardly 
excuse  for  hiding  our  own  crimes  behind  the  tombstones 
76 


The  Bitterness  of  Father-Love 

of  our  ancestors.  And  so  we  call  upon  the  officials  of 
this  city  to  do  their  full  duty — not  merely  to  close  up 
these  houses  of  infamy,  but  to  see  to  it  that  their  inmates, 
these  women  with  the  scarlet  letters  on  their  breasts,  are 
banished  forever  from  the  community.  .  .  .'  " 


77 


CHAPTER  V 

THE  WOMAN   WHO  DID   NOT   SMILE 

A  LTHOUGH  there  had  been  no  sound  in  the  house 
•**•  other  than  his  voice,  Elijah  Bradshaw  all  at  once 
became  conscious  of  a  presence  in  the  room.  He  ceased 
reading  and  raised  his  eyes  guardedly. 

Before  him  stood  the  dim  figure  of  a  woman. 

For  a  moment  he  was  too  astonished  and  too  angry 
to  speak.  He  had  made  it  explicit  that  he  was  not  to  be 
disturbed,  and  here  some  one  had  found  her  way  not  only 
into  his  house  but  into  his  very  study.  He  was  startled 
too  at  the  unusualness  of  the  event ;  for  even  his  closest 
friends  were  never  ushered  into  his  room  without  first 
being  announced.  There  was  something  strange  and  ir- 
regular and  sinister  in  the  appearance  of  the  silent  wo- 
man facing  him  from  out  the  darkness  of  the  room. 

She  was  a  young  woman,  somewhere  between  twenty- 
five  and  thirty.  Her  face  was  calm  and  divinely  peace- 
ful. She  had  a  wistful,  almost  sad  expression  in  her 
eyes,  suggestive  of  mysterious  depths.  World-old  trag- 
edy and  compassion  were  written  on  her  features,  which 
resembled  the  portraits  by  which  the  old  masters  depicted 
the  Magdalene.  She  had  the  appearance  of  belonging 
to  another  world  and  age.  She  was  pale,  and  on  her 
cheeks  was  a  touch  of  rouge  which  harmonised  illy  with 
the  softness  and  tenderness  of  her  look.  Her  limpid, 
exotic  eyes  were  set  well  apart;  her  nose  was  straight 
78 


The  Woman  Who  Did  Not  Smile 

and  sensitive,  her  mouth  exquisitely  modelled.  She  stood 
erect,  poised  gracefully. 

About  her  was  a  black  mantle  of  many  folds  which 
reached  the  ground.  Its  hooded  cloak  had  partly  fallen 
back  from  her  forehead,  revealing  a  mass  of  dull  bronze 
hair.  Her  hands  were  bare  and  hung  passively  at  her  side. 
They  were  graceful  hands,  white  and  conical,  and  they 
showed  no  signs  of  having  laboured  at  even  the  ordinary 
tasks  of  life.  There  was  a  certain  archaic  mystery  in  her 
bearing,  an  almost  esoteric  aloofness,  as  though  she  had 
looked  on  at  the  sad  struggle  of  life  throughout  all  the 
centuries  and  had  shared  the  world's  sorrows.  .  .  . 

After  Elijah  Bradshaw's  first  wave  of  bewilderment 
had  subsided,  he  summoned  his  speech  and  asked :  "Who 
are  you?" 

The  woman  waited  for  the  fraction  of  a  minute.  Then 
her  lips  parted  slowly  and  she  replied  in  an  even,  rich 
voice,  at  once  dignified  and  humble :  "A  Woman." 

Bradshaw  now  had  himself  in  hand.  He  sat  upright 
and  frowned  impatiently. 

"Yes,  yes,  I  can  see  that,"  he  remarked  hastily.  "But 
who  are  you,  and  what  are  you  doing  here?" 

The  Woman's  composure  remained  inviolate. 

"My  name?"  There  was  a  suggestion  of  a  mirthless 
smile  at  the  corners  of  her  mouth.  "What  does  that 
matter  ?" 

Her  complacency  and  coolness  had  now  angered  the 
man.  When  he  spoke  again  it  was  with  acerbity. 

"You  needn't  tell  me  if  you  don't  want  to.  In  fact,  I 
don't  care  to  know  it.  ...  But  how  did  you  get  in 
here?" 

The  grotesque  singularity  of  the  situation  came  to  him 
all  at  once,  and  he  made  a  move  to  ring  for  the  servant. 

79 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

The  Woman  stepped  toward  him  impulsively  and  put 
up  her  hand  in  a  gesture  of  protestation. 

"Please  don't  do  that,"  she  pleaded.    "I'll  go." 

As  she  spoke  she  wavered  slightly  like  one  who  has 
been  overcome  by  weakness,  and  steadied  herself  on  the 
edge  of  the  desk. 

"I  thought — perhaps — you  might  help  me,"  she  added. 

Bradshaw  did  not  ring  the  bell.  He  checked  himself, 
although  he  did  not  know  exactly  why,  for  he  had  fully 
intended  to  have  Otto  show  the  intruder  out.  He  now 
looked  at  her  curiously.  His  fears  had  been  dissipated. 

"What  made  you  think  I  could  help  you?"  he  asked 
irascibly.  "Why  did  you  come  to  me?  .  .  .  How  can  I 
help  you?" 

The  Woman  raised  her  head  wearily.  "You  can  help 
me  to  get  employment,  perhaps." 

At  her  words,  the  man  sat  back  in  his  chair,  smiling 
at  his  visitor's  unusual  manner  in  applying  for  work. 
He  was  irritated  at  the  thought  of  her  disturbing  him  in 
this  manner,  but  realising  she  must  be  desperate  to  have 
broken  into  his  house  for  such  an  object,  he  softened  his 
tone  a  little,  although  even  now  when  he  spoke  he  was 
stern  and  businesslike. 

"Well,  perhaps  I  can  give  you  something  to  do.  But 
this  is  no  time  or  place  to  apply  for  work.  Go  to  my 
store  to-morrow  and  if  you  can  convince  my  Superin- 
tendent that  you  are  willing  and  honest " 

The  Woman  emitted  a  hollow  laugh. 

"So  that's  your  answer,  is  it  ?"  She  looked  at  him  with 
ironical  amusement.  "I'm  afraid  I  can't  do  that." 

The  other  did  not  understand  and  answered  her  with 
an  air  of  finality.    "Very  well.    If  you  can't  do  that,  that 
ends  it." 
80 


The  Woman  Who  Did  Not  Smile 

But  the  Woman  made  no  motion  to  go. 

Bradshaw  was  profoundly  puzzled.  "Aren't  you  will- 
ing to  work?" 

"Oh,  yes,"  she  said  wearily.  "I  am  willing  enough,  but 
I  could  never  work  in  your  store.  I  must  have  a  place 
not  so  public.  You  see,  what  you  suggest  would  be  out 
of  the  question." 

Bradshaw  arose  angrily.  "No,  I  don't  see!  What  do 
you  mean?" 

"I  mean  that  I  am  too  well  known.  I  would  be  recog- 
nised and  that  would  make  it  hard  for  both  of  us.  ... 
Oh,  it  wouldn't  do!"  She  looked  around  her.  "Now  a 
place  here — in  your  home.  .  .  ." 

The  man  had  decided  that  she  was  a  crank.  He  had 
no  intention  of  prolonging  the  interview.  Already  he  had 
begun  to  feel  uneasy. 

"We  are  not  taking  unknown  women  into  our  home," 
he  said,  looking  at  her  glaringly.  "And  it  strikes  me  you 
have  considerable  presumption  to  ask  for  work  and  then 
dictate  just  what  kind  of  work  you  are  going  to  do.  I 
want  you  to  go  now  before  I  call  and  have  you  put  out. 
I'm  too  busy  to  be  bothered  any  more." 

The  Woman  scrutinised  him  gravely,  but  even  now  she 
made  no  sign  that  she  was  ready  to  depart.  The  low, 
gentle  quality  of  her  voice  had  not  changed  its  timbre 
when  she  explained,  looking  him  straight  in  the  eyes: 
"I  came  to  you — because  you  were  responsible." 

For  a  moment  Bradshaw  was  taken  aback.  He  did  not 
grasp  her  meaning,  but  her  words  had  in  them  an  un- 
pleasant implication. 

"Responsible  ?"  he  demanded,  losing  his  temper.  "Re- 
sponsible for  what?  Tell  me  quickly  and  get  out  of 
here." 

81 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

But  no  display  of  anger  on  his  part  seemed  to  affect 
the  Woman  in  the  least.  Again  she  replied  gently: 
"Responsible  for  my  being  in  the  streets  to-night,  home- 
less." 

It  occurred  to  the  man  now  that  he  was  the  victim  of 
some  mistake,  that  the  woman  was  sincere  but  had  erred 
as  to  his  identity. 

"I?"  he  said  conciliatingly.  "What  have  I  to  do  with 
it?  Who  do  you  think  I  am?  .  .  .  My  name  is  Elijah 
Bradshaw." 

Again  the  Woman  smiled  slightly.  "I  know  who  you 
are.  There  has  been  no  mistake.  And  it  is  you  who 
have  everything  to  do  with  it.  Can  it  be  that  you  don't 
know  that  hundreds  of  women  like  me  are  cursing  you 
at  this  very  moment?" 

Bradshaw  laughed  in  derision.  Now  he  was  sure  that 
his  conclusion  about  her  being  a  crank  was  correct.  But 
jsomehow  her  seriousness  interested  him. 

"Cursing  me?    And,  pray,  for  what?" 

"I'll  tell  you."  The  Woman  drew  nearer  to  him. 
"For  having  thrown  them  out  of  their  homes  into  the 
gutters.  For  having  taken  away  from  them  their  last 
shred  of  hope  of  getting  out  of  the  life  they  were  living. 
For  hounding  them  from  cover  to  cover.  For  making 
them  outcasts  even  more  than  they  were.  That  is  why 
hundreds  of  women  are  cursing  you.  Don't  you  suppose 
that  they  know  it's  your  money  that  is  paying  for  all 
this,  that  it  is  through  your  efforts  these  infamies  are  be- 
ing perpetrated,  that  you — and  you  alone — are  the  one 
to  blame?" 

The  cynical  smile  faded  from  Bradshaw's  face.  The 
whole  matter  appeared  plain  to  him  now. 

"I  see,"  he  commented  with  contempt.  "You  mean 
82 


The  Woman  Who  Did  Not  Smile 

the  women  of  the  district.  Well,  my  answer  to  your 
information  is,  let  them  curse.  My  conscience  is  clear. 
They  have  received  only  what  they  deserve.  .  .  .  But 
how  does  this  matter  concern  you?  You  are  surely  not 
one  of  them?" 

"How  little  you  know  of  them!  With  what  little  au- 
thority you  speak!"  The  Woman  shook  her  head  sadly. 

Bradshaw  was  genuinely  astonished.  "Do  you  mean 
to  imply  that  I  am  to  believe  that  you — are  a " 

"Oh,  you  needn't  say  it."  The  Woman's  voice  was 
tired.  "But  the  fact  remains  that  I  am  one  of  them." 

The  man  looked  at  her  incredulously.  His  interest  in 
the  situation  made  him  forget  his  anger.  He  had  for- 
gotten even  the  unusualness  of  their  meeting. 

"You  don't  look  like  a  vicious  woman."  He  turned 
the  light  so  that  it  might  fall  on  her  face. 

As  he  looked  at  her  his  wonder  grew. 

"Why,  your  face  reminds  me  of  some  one  I  once 
knew — a  good  woman  she  was.  .  .  .  And  your  eyes !" 

After  a  moment's  scrutiny  of  them  he  forced  himself 
to  laugh  unbelievingly. 

"You  are  an  impostor,"  he  added. 

He  dropped  back  into  his  chair  and  his  eyes  were  look- 
ing far  away.  The  figure  before  him  had  brought  back 
to  life  a  memory  which  he  had  thought  irretrievably 
dead. 

Then  slowly  the  woman  drew  back  her  cloak,  and  shook 
the  hood  from  her  head.  She  stood  revealed  in  a  gaudy 
red  satin  dress,  trimmed  with  lace  and  gold  braid.  It  was 
cut  extremely  low,  and  fitted  her  snugly,  revealing  the 
lines  of  her  figure.  She  wore  red  satin  slippers  to  match 
her  gown.  Her  hair  was  combed  loosely  in  an  accen- 
tuated style,  and  was  adorned  by  a  large  comb  of  imita- 

83 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

tion  diamonds.  With  all  of  its  gorgeousness,  her  attire 
was  slovenly  and  shoddy,  and  attested,  only  too  well,  to 
her  membership  in  the  profession  she  had  claimed. 

"Now  will  you  believe  it?"  she  asked  defiantly. 

Bradshaw  took  one  look  at  her,  then  leaped  to  his  feet 
in  rage. 

"How  dare  you  profane  my  home!  How  dare  you 
come  here  and  contaminate  this  very  room  where  only 
a  few  minutes  ago  my  wife  and  children  were !"  Before 
she  could  protest  he  had  rung  the  bell  violently. 

The  Woman  did  not  heed  the  summons  he  had  given. 

"The  children  ?"  she  repeated  after  him,  quietly.  "Per- 
haps a  daughter?" 

The  man  was  white  with  fury. 

"Daughter — yes,  a  virtuous  girl,  thank  God!"  he  re- 
sponded loudly. 

"And  a  son,  too,  perhaps?" 

"Yes,  and  a  son!"  the  man  flung  back.  "A  boy  who 
has  never  met  such  as  you." 

Once  more  a  weary  smile  spread  over  the  Woman's 
face.  "These  two — are  they  your  only  children?" 

Bradshaw  rang  the  bell  again. 

"Yes,"  he  blurted.    "How  dare  you  question  me?" 

The  Woman  did  not  shrink  from  him.  On  the  con- 
trary, she  approached  to  the  edge  of  the  desk  and  leaned 
over  it,  facing  him  and  looking  directly  into  his  eyes. 

"Are  you  sure — quite  sure?" 

The  servant  entered  the  room  quietly.  He  was  star- 
tled at  seeing  the  Woman,  but  recovered  his  composure 
and  stood  waiting. 

"Otto,  how  did  this  woman  get  in  here?"  Bradshaw 
demanded.  "I  told  you  I  was  to  see  no  one  to-night." 

The  servant  approached,  bewildered. 
84 


The  Woman  Who  Did  Not  Smile 

"I  don't  know,  sir,"  he  said  in  a  frightened  voice.  "I 
heard  no  one  come  in,  and  the  side  and  rear  doors  are 
locked,  sir." 

The  Woman  at  the  desk  had  taken  no  notice  of  the 
servant's  entrance.  She  was  now  leaning  closer  to  Brad- 
shaw,  and  said  evenly:  "Look  at  me  again  before  you 
order  your  man  to  put  me  out.  .  .  .  Are  you  sure  these 
two  are  your  only  children?"  She  spoke  so  that  the 
servant  could  not  hear  her. 

Bradshaw,  startled  again  by  her  voice,  looked  at  her 
fixedly  as  the  direct  rays,  from  the  lamp  fell  full  upon 
her  features.  For  a  moment  he  seemed  as  if  hypnotised. 
Then  a  great  fear  arose  in  his  heart.  His  lips  trembled, 
and  his  hands  clutched  tightly  on  the  edge  of  the  desk. 
As  the  servant  approached,  Bradshaw  waved  to  him  me- 
chanically to  leave  the  room. 

When  he  had  gone  the  man  laughed  nervously,  passing 
his  hand  across  his  eyes. 

"No!"  he  said,  "I  will  not  believe  it!" 

But  the  Woman  did  not  shift  her  gaze  or  make  a  move. 

"Look  at  my  face  again."  This  time  there  was  a  com- 
mand in  her  voice.  "Look  at  it  and  then  tell  me  that  you 
do  not  remember  the  woman  whose  look  you  saw  there." 

Bradshaw  looked  again,  fascinated.  The  muscles  in 
his  face  began  to  twitch,  and  he  shrank  back  as  if  stricken, 
covering  his  face  with  his  hands. 

"Ruth!  My  God!  .  .  .  But  she  has  been  dead  for 
twenty  years !" 

"You  do  remember  then,  don't  you?  Will  you  dare 
deny  it  now?"  There  was  a  note  of  victory  in  her  voice. 

"She — your  mother !  I  do  dare  to  deny  it !"  Bradshaw 
rose  again,  his  face  tense  with  emotion.  "You're  trying 
to  blackmail  me !  Some  one  had  told  you.  .  .  ." 

85 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

The  Woman  shook  her  head.  "I  needed  no  one  to  tell 
me.  .  .  .  Do  you  recall  when  you  met  her?" 

The  man  was  taken  off  his  guard.  "In  the  autumn,  at 
Blenheim,"  he  said  softly. 

His  mind  had  drifted  back  twenty  years.  An  old  page 
of  the  story  of  his  youth  had  again  been  opened  under 
his  eyes.  Every  passage  in  that  forgotten  story  now 
came  to  him,  distinct  and  accusing.  Again  he  saw  a  girl 
with  a  plain  white  dress  standing  in  a  woodland.  There 
were  autumn  leaves  all  about  her,  touched  by  the  gold 
of  an  autumn  sunset;  they  seemed  to  be  everywhere,  in 
her  hair  and  her  dress,  banked  behind  her,  glorified  by 
some  unusual  splendour.  Again  he  held  out  his  arms  to 
her,  and  she  stepped  into  them  trustingly.  She  was  in- 
terwoven with  the  saddening  world,  the  drear  skies,  the 
browning  meadows  and  the  falling  leaves.  Bradshaw  had 
been  young  then,  and  the  infatuation  of  his  first  real  pas- 
sion was  in  his  veins.  He  had  taken  her  to  Montreal,  and 
for  a  week  they  had  been  happy.  But  the  tide  of  his  love 
had  receded,  and  one  night  he  had  left  her,  without 
thought  of  the  consequences  of  his  act.  He  had  never 
seen  or  heard  from,  her  since.  But  to-night  the  whole  epi- 
sode had  come  back  to  him  vividly,  raised  from  the  grave 
of  the  past  by  the  Woman  who  had  come  into  his  house. 

"You  do  remember!"  The  Woman's  voice  brought 
him  back.  "Love  comes  quickly  in  hazy  autumn  days. 
.  .  .  Were  you  fair  to  her?" 

Bradshaw  had  been  deeply  shaken  by  the  memory. 
When  he  spoke,  in  an  effort  to  justify  himself,  his  voice 
was  uncertain. 

"I  had  heard  that  she  was  dead." 

"But  they  did  not  tell  you  that  she  had  left  a  child?" 
the  Woman  asked. 
86 


The  Woman  Who  Did  Not  Smile 

The  man  tried  to  shake  himself  free  from  the  hand 
of  destiny  which  he  felt  tightening  about  his  life. 

"No — no;  I  never  knew,"  he  replied  earnestly.  "I 
will  not  believe  it.  It  cannot  be  possible.  .  .  .  And  yet — 
your  eyes !  .  .  .  My  God !  I  must  believe  it."  He  leaned 
toward  the  woman.  "You  are  my  daughter."  There  was 
a  silence.  "What  am  I  to  do.  ...  And  you,  to  what  un- 
speakable depths  have  you  fallen?" 

The  Woman  looked  at  him  compassionately. 

"A  little  while  ago,"  she  began,  "I  heard  you  read 
that  our  misfortunes  are  of  our  own  making.  But  that's 
not  altogether  true  in  my  case,  is  it?  You  see,  I  had  no 
chance — no  mother's  love — no  one  to  point  the  way." 
She  held  out  her  arms  to  him  appealingly.  "But 
now " 

Bradshaw  now  remembered  her  saying  that  she  had 
come  to  him  for  help;  and  in  her  appeal  he  read  of  her 
desire  that  he  should  acknowledge  her  as  his  daughter. 
The  disgrace  which  would  follow  any  such  action  was 
too  great  for  him  to  consider.  He  drew  away  from  her. 

"No,  no — never!  Not  that!"  His  voice  was  broken 
with  fear,  but  he  caught  himself  up  sharply.  "But  I  pity 
you — God  knows  I  pity  you,  and  my  duty  demands  that 
I  provide  for  you." 

He  reached  in  his  breast-pocket  and  drew  forth  a 
purse.  He  looked  in  it  and  saw  that  it  was  full  of 
bills. 

"Here,"  he  said,  handing  it  to  the  Woman.  "Now  you 
must  go  away.  When  this  money  is  gone,  I  will  send 
you  more." 

The  Woman  drew  herself  up  and  looked  at  the  man 
disdainfully. 

"I  want  no  money,"  she  answered  with  scorn.  "It  is 

87 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

the  cheapest  thing  in  the  world.  What  I  want  is  a  home, 
a  father's  love." 

"But  you  can't  have  that  here,  my  girl,"  Bradshaw 
replied,  trying  to  hide  his  fright  beneath  severity.  "That 
is  impossible."  He  turned  away  from  her  and  his  man- 
ner changed.  "I  could  not  face  it." 

"You  will  have  to  face  it,"  the  Woman  said  calmly. 
"For  I  shall  remain.  It  is  my  right." 

Bradshaw  was  about  to  protest  further,  but  when  he 
looked  into  the  Woman's  eyes  he  saw  that  he  was  beaten. 

"It's  my  punishment,"  he  murmured.  "God's  ven- 
geance !" 

"But  no  one  need  ever  know,"  the  Woman  went  on 
tenderly,  putting  her  hand  on  his  arm.  ...  "I  shall  re- 
main here  as  a  servant.  And  your  son  and  daughter 
shall  not  be  harmed.  No  one  shall  ever  know  who  I  am. 
You  can  explain  it  easily  to  your  wife.  You  can  say  to 
your  wife  that  I  came  to  you  highly  recommended. 
Some  one  to  whom  you  are  indebted  asked  you  to  take 
me.  .  .  .  Don't  you  see  how  easy  it  will  be  for  you  to 
do  your  duty?" 

The  man  protested  again,  weakly,  like  one  who  hopes 
against  hope.  "But  my  children — to  think  of  you  here 
with  them — a — woman  of  the  streets !" 

"And  yet,"  she  answered  gently,  "by  your  own  con- 
fession, your  own  daughter." 

"God  help  me !"  breathed  Elijah  Bradshaw,  as  he  rang 
again  for  the  servant. 

"I  have  other  clothes  with  me."  The  Woman  in- 
dicated a  small,  shabby  handbag  which  she  had  brought. 
"You  need  have  no  fear;  these  clothes  I  wear  shall  be 
put  aside." 

As  Otto  entered,  Bradshavr  forced  himself  to  say  in 
88 


The  Woman  Who  Did  Not  Smile 

a  matter-of-fact  voice :  "Show  Miss — this  young  woman 
to  the  spare  room  at  the  rear  of  the  second  floor,  and 
see  that  she  is  made  comfortable.  She  is  to  be  a  new 
maid.  The  others  will  all  remain — and  she  is  to  be  treated 
with  every  consideration." 

Otto  hid  well  his  amazement  as  he  left  the  room  with 
the  Woman  and  ascended  the  stairs. 

When  she  had  gone  Bradshaw  sat  for  many  minutes 
as  one  dazed.  Then,  with  a  quick,  impulsive  movement, 
he  opened  a  secret  drawer  of  his  desk  and  took  out  a 
package  of  old  faded  papers  which  were  covered  with 
dust.  His  hands  trembled  as  he  ran  his  fingers  along 
them.  Finally  he  drew  forth  a  photograph  and  held  it 
under  the  light.  For  thirty  years  he  had  not  looked  at 
the  picture,  yet  he  had  always  kept  it,  along  with  her 
letters.  For  some  reason  which  he  could  not  understand, 
he  had  never  been  able  to  bring  himself  to  destroy  these 
records  of  his  early  romance.  They  had  always  seemed 
to  epitomise  his  youth,  his  first  wild  taste  of  love,  the 
great  awakening  of  his  young  manhood. 

As  he  looked  at  the  picture  now,  after  all  the  inter- 
vening years,  he  said  half  aloud  in  a  broken  and  defeated 
voice :  "It  is  true.  They  were  her  eyes." 

;He  bent  his  head  forward  in  his  arms. 

"Ruth,  Ruth,  forgive  me!  I  will  make  amends.  .  .  . 
Forgive  me — I  never  knew." 


CHAPTER  VI 

THE   CURSE 

BRADSHAW  passed  a  troubled,  restless 
night.  Precipitously  and  without  warning  his  life 
had  been  turned  upside  down.  Although  he  was  well 
along  in  years  he  had  never  before  felt  the  ruthless 
and  inevitable  retribution  of  his  acts.  He  had  imagined 
himself  secure  from  the  hand  of  fate,  and  had  come  to 
look  upon  himself  as  his  own  destiny.  His  power  had 
always  given  him  a  feeling  of  security.  He  had  feared 
neither  problems  nor  obstacles — the  problems  he  could 
solve;  the  obstacles  he  could  eliminate.  Nothing  had 
ever  got  the  upper  hand  of  him  before.  He  had  always 
met  life  honestly  and  in  the  open,  shrinking  from  noth- 
ing, walking  boldly  into  the  face  of  danger,  taking  his 
chances  with  other  men,  serene  in  the  knowledge  of  his 
strength  and  ability.  Thus  far  in  all  his  grapplings  with 
the  forces  of  existence  he  had  been  victorious.  His  con- 
science had  been  clear.  He  had  looked  life  squarely  in 
the  face  with  an  indomitable  and  austere  bearing. 

But  now  he  had  tasted  the  bitter  acid  of  his  own  sub- 
merged weakness.  The  unknown  and  unrecognised  can- 
ker which  for  thirty  years  had  been  eating  away  in  the 
depths  of  his  nature  had  suddenly  and  without  fore- 
shadowing symptoms  undermined  his  prowess.  His  life's 
edifice,  which  he  had  carefully  and  painfully  been  build- 
ing from  his  early  manhood,  had  been  based  on  a  founda- 
90 


The  Curse 

tion  wherein  there  had  been  a  flaw ;  and  the  mighty 
structure  now  gave  signs  of  falling  about  him,  burying 
him  and  his  family  beneath  it,  and  leaving  him  a  wreck 
with  nothing  to  show  for  his  long  years  of  labour  and 
struggle.  The  safety  of  his  future  depended  solely  on 
the  Woman  who  had  come  to  him  so  mysteriously,  bear- 
ing in  her  bosom  the  dread  secret  of  the  accumulated 
effects  of  his  boyhood's  misdeed. 

Something  in  the  Woman's  words  and  attitude,  how- 
ever, gave  him  a  sterner  hope.  She  had  in  a  measure 
made  him  feel  that  he  could  trust  her — that  so  long  as 
he  did  his  duty  by  her,  according  to  her  own  terms,  she 
would  not  betray  him.  But  the  danger  would  always  be 
present  and  imminent.  His  security  and  self-confidence 
had  partially  disappeared.  He  tried  to  convince  himself 
of  the  injustice  of  it  all,  but  when  he  thought  of  that 
girl  whom  he  had  betrayed  in  the  long  ago,  he  found  little 
consolation  in  self-pity.  He  had  done  wrong.  He  knew 
that.  He  told  himself  it  was  a  sin  of  his  youth,  com- 
mitted when  he  had  only  inadequately  understood  the 
seriousness  of  his  culpability.  Were  there  not  hundreds 
of  men — men  honoured  and  respected  and  living  upright 
lives — who  had  been  guilty  of  just  such  a  misdemeanour 
somewhere  back  in  their  past?  Were  there  indeed  any 
men  who  had  attained  to  his  estate  of  worldliness  and 
success  that  did  not  have  hidden  away  some  secret  fully 
as  reprehensible  as  his  own?  Was  he  so  different  from 
all  other  men? 

In  such  questions  as  these  he  sought  for  consolation. 
In  the  quietude  of  early  morning,  he  resolved  to  con- 
tinue his  life  and  work  as  if  nothing  had  happened, 
and  trust  to  the  Woman's  honour.  It  was  the  only 
course  open  to  him.  Something  indeed  might  happen 

91 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

to  extricate  him  from  his  predicament.  In  the  mean- 
time he  would  have  to  depend  on  the  Woman's  loyalty. 

Before  breakfast,  he  went  to  his  wife's  room  and  ex- 
plained, as  best  he  could,  the  presence  of  the  Woman  in 
the  house.  The  fact  that  he  had  always  done  as  he 
pleased  in  his  home  made  easier  his  task.  His  wife  had 
implicit  faith  in  him.  She  never  questioned  his  actions ; 
and  when  he  told  her  that  it  was  a  necessity  that  the 
Woman  should  remain,  that  she  had  been  sent  to  him  by 
some  one  whom  he  could  not  afford  to  antagonise  by  a 
refusal,  she  accepted  his  words  with  the  same  silent  con- 
fidence which  she  had  always  manifested  toward  his 
decisions. 

Elijah  Bradshaw  had  at  first  shrunk  from  the  decep- 
tion of  this  explanation.  He  had  never  lied  to  his  wife. 
But  when  he  reasoned  that  her  happiness,  as  well  as  the 
happiness  of  his  children,  depended  upon  his  falsehood, 
he  felt  justified  in  his  conduct.  On  first  thought  he  had 
decided  to  go  to  his  wife  and  tell  her  everything.  He 
felt  that  she  would  have  understood  and  forgiven  him. 
But  he  knew  it  would  break  her  heart  and  that  the 
Woman's  presence  in  the  house  would  be  a  perpetual  and 
ever-present  tragedy  from  which  she  could  never  recover. 
He  loved  his  wife  and  shrank  from  giving  her  pain.  For 
that  reason  alone  he  did  not  do  the  brave  and  heroic  thing. 

At  breakfast  the  Woman  appeared  in  a  plain  black 
dress  and  black  shoes.  Her  hair  was  combed  simply 
and  neatly  and  the  rouge  had  disappeared  from  her 
cheeks.  She  wore  a  small  white  apron  with  white  soft 
cuffs  and  collar.  Her  attire  was  that  of  the  other  maids 
in  the  Bradshaw  household.  Nowhere  in  her  appear- 
ance was  there  the  slightest  indication  of  the  life  from 
which  she  had  come.  She  took  her  orders  from  the  but- 
92 


The  Curse 

ler  and  went  willingly  about  her  work,  performing  her 
duties  silently  and  capably.  Before  the  meal  was  over 
Elijah  Bradshaw  had  been  inspired  with  new  confidence. 
Neither  his  wife  nor  his  children  suspected  that  anything 
was  amiss,  and  it  was  evident  from  the  Woman's  actions 
that  she  had  no  intention  of  doing  aught  save  what  she 
had  promised. 

As  he  passed  into  his  study,  preparatory  to  going  to 
his  office,  the  bell  rang  and  Bellamy  was  announced. 
The  young  man  knew  of  the  difficulty  of  obtaining  a 
private  interview  with  Bradshaw  in  his  office,  and  his 
mission  was  such  that  he  did  not  care  to  take  any  chances 
of  being  interrupted.  He  had  come  early  in  order  to 
catch  the  older  man  before  he  had  left. 

"Hello,  Mr.  Bradshaw,"  Bellamy  greeted  him  pleas- 
antly ;  but  when  he  saw  the  troubled  look  on  the  other's 
face  he  hesitated.  Then  he  said:  "The  City  Editor 
has  sent  me  over  for  that  statement." 

Bradshaw,  sitting  at  his  desk,  did  not  look  up. 

"I'm  sorry,  Bellamy,  but  it  isn't  ready.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  I  don't  think  this  is  just  the  time  to  publish  it. 
I  am  going  to  hold  it  up  for  a  few  days.  I  know  you 
won't  mind.  Dr.  Smollet  and  I  decided  it  was  best  for 
the  cause  if  it  didn't  appear  until  there  were  signs  of 
weakening  on  the  part  of  our  enemies.  I  know  you  and 
your  paper  want  to  do  what's  best." 

''Certainly,"  Bellamy  agreed.  He  was  not  at  all  inter- 
ested in  the  statement  anyway.  In  fact,  before  he  had 
come  he  had  had  no  intention  of  speaking  of  it.  "Let 
me  have  it  when  you  think  it  will  do  the  most  good,"  he 
added  casually. 

Then  he  paused  for  a  moment  and  regarded  the  older 
man  critically. 

93 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

"By  the  way,  Mr.  Bradshaw,"  he  began  again  hesitat- 
ingly, "do  you  mind  if  I  speak  to  you  about  quite  an- 
other matter  .  .  .  about  Bess?" 

"Bess?    What  about  her?" 

"The  fact  is,  Mr.  Bradshaw,"  the  young  man  said 
earnestly,  stepping  closer,  "I  love  your  daughter.  I  have 
loved  her  for  many  years.  ...  I  want  to  marry  her." 

Bradshaw  was  astonished.  He  looked  at  Bellamy  as 
if  he  could  not  have  heard  the  words  correctly.  "You 
want  to  do  what?" 

The  young  man  did  not  hesitate.  He  walked  still 
closer  to  the  desk. 

"I  said,  Mr.  Bradshaw,  I  want  to  marry  her." 

Bradshaw  had  recovered  himself  now  and  showed  signs 
of  anger.  "So  you  have  been  making  love  to  her  behind 
my  back!" 

Bellamy  only  smiled. 

"Not  exactly,  sir,"  he  returned  jokingly.  "I  tried  to 
keep  farther  away  from  you  than  that." 

Seeing  that  his  efforts  at  intimidation  had  been  unsuc- 
cessful, Bradshaw  asked  calmly:  "Does  Elizabeth  know 
that  you  were  going  to  speak  to  me  ?" 

Bellamy  nodded.  "I  told  her  yesterday  I  would  take 
the  first  opportunity." 

"Yesterday — eh?"  Bradshaw  frowned  unpleasantly. 
"That's  what  comes  of  letting  Elizabeth  run  about.  I 
told  her  mother  she  shouldn't  have  gone."  Then  he 
changed  his  tone.  "How  much  money  do  you  make  ?" 

"Fifty  dollars  a  week."  There  was  no  shame  in  the 
young  man's  voice. 

"Umph !"  Bradshaw  smiled  in  mild  derision.  "With 
that  salary  you  couldn't  keep  my  daughter  in  shoes.  How 
do  you  expect  to  support  her  ?  .  .  .  You  have  nerve  com- 
94 


The  Curse 

ing  to  me  and  asking  me  for  my  daughter's  hand  when 
you  haven't  even  enough  money  to  take  care  of  your- 
self." 

Bellamy  was  not  abashed. 

"I  heard  that  you  were  a  poor  man  once  yourself," 
he  said.  "I  believe  that  you  are  even  proud  of  it.  Come 
to  think  of  it,  I  have  heard  you  say  so.  ...  Did  you  have 
such  a  sumptuous  salary  when  you  got  married?" 

"Times  have  changed,"  Bradshaw  answered  quickly, 
"and  it  makes  no  difference  what  I  had  when  I  married. 
My  wife  wasn't  used  to  luxury — and  that  made  a  differ- 
ence. But  Elizabeth  is  used  to  it — but  we  won't  argue 
the  point." 

Bellamy  regarded  him  a  moment.  "Then  your  answer 
is  no?" 

"My  answer  is  no,"  replied  Bradshaw  emphatically. 

Still  Bellamy  hesitated. 

"And  there  is  no  possibility  of  any  change?"  he  per- 
sisted. 

"None  whatever."  The  older  man's  voice  was  irritable 
and  determined. 

Bellamy  shrugged  his  shoulders  a  little  hopelessly  and 
started  toward  the  door.  In  the  hallway  he  hesitated 
again.  Then  he  turned  once  more  toward  the  other  man, 
who  had  busied  himself  with  his  work  and  seemed  al- 
ready to  have  dismissed  the  whole  matter  from  his  mind. 

"May  I  ask  of  you,"  Bellamy  began,  "if  you  have  any 
objections  to  me — personally?  You  see,  I  want  to  get 
all  my  facts  in  hand  before  I  go  ahead." 

Bradshaw  was  annoyed.  Laying  his  pen  aside,  he 
asked  with  no  little  exasperation :  "Why  do  you  persist 
on  this  tack?  ...  I  have  given  my  answer  and  I  have 
given  sufficient  reasons  for  my  answer.  You  certainly 

95 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

can  expect  no  more.  Personally,  however,  I  have  no 
objection  to  you — except,"  he  added  qualifyingly,  "I  think 
you  are  too  smart  for  one  thing."  He  thought  a  minute 
and  then  explained.  "I've  sized  you  up  as  one  of  those 
young  fellows  who  think  they  know  more  than  their 
fathers.  I  don't  know  where  they  get  it.  Even  Paul 
seems  headed  in  that  direction.  He  picked  it  up  at  col- 
lege perhaps,  but  I  can't  account  for  it  in  you  and  others 
like  you.  All  the  young  men  of  to-day  are  chock-full 
of  scepticism  and  pessimism.  They  are  agnostics  and 
unbelievers.  They  refuse  to  take  anything  in  life  seri- 
ously. They  poke  fun  at  the  churches  and  scoff  at  sacred 
things  generally." 

"Please,  Mr.  Bradshaw,"  protested  the  young  man, 
"don't  put  me  in  that  class.  Where  did  you  get  the  idea 
that  I  am  of  that  sort?" 

"From  you  yourself,"  Bradshaw  answered.  "Remem- 
ber, I  have  known  you  for  a  number  of  years,  and  I've 
heard  you  talk.  Why,  only  the  other  night  the  way  you 
opened  up  on  Gleason  was  disgraceful.  It  struck  me 
you  had  a  lot  of  impertinence  to  talk  to  him  the  way 
you  did.  You  were  interviewing  him  for  your  paper,  and 
you  showed  him  no  more  respect  than  if  he  had  been 
some  kind  of  a  labour  agitator." 

Bellamy  smiled  faintly.  "I  did  lose  my  head  a  little 
then,  didn't  I?  But  the  truth  of  the  matter  was  he  got 
my  goat,  telling  how  God  calls  him  from  one  city  to 
another.  And  we  know — especially  you  ought  to  know — 
that  he  couldn't  hear  God  calling  with  a  megaphone  if 
they  didn't  show  him  the  colour  of  the  coin." 

Bradshaw  struck  the  desk  with  his  flat  hand. 

"You  see!"  he  exclaimed.  "That's  the  sort  of  '.rreli- 
gious  talk  I  mean.  If  I  had  never  heard  you  make  state- 
96 


The  Curse 

ments  like  that  before,  you  have  given  me  sufficient  evi- 
dence right  now,  here  in  this  room,  to  justify  my  attitude 
toward  you."  He  shook  his  head,  and  said  somewhat 
paternally,  "Yqu've  got  the  wrong  angle,  my  boy." 

"And  what  about  Gleason's  angle?"  Bellamy  tried  to 
hide  his  resentment  toward  the  older  man's  accusations. 
"And  what  of  his  irreligiousness  ?  .  .  .  Listen  here."  He 
drew  from  his  pocket  a  galley  proof  on  which  was  much 
fine  writing.  "Here's  an  excerpt  from  his  sermon  to- 
night— advance  copy  sent  around  by  his  press  agent. 
He's  telling  the  story  of  David  and  Goliath."  Bellamy 
drew  up  his  sleeves  and  squared  himself  in  imitation  of 
Gleason's  aggressive  manner,  and  then  began  reading: 
"  'Oh,  little  Dave  soaked  old  Goliath  on  the  coco,  be- 
tween the  lamps,  and  he  went  down  to  the  mat  for  the 
count.  Dave  took  his  sword  and  cut  the  big  fellow's 
block  off,  and  the  rest  of  the  Philistine  gang  beat  it.' " 

Bradshaw  could  not  restrain  a  smile. 

"That's  Gleason's  style,"  he  commented.  "He  means 
it  the  right  way." 

"Give  him  credit,  boys!"  Bellamy  said  sententiously, 
laughing.  Then  he  turned  to  the  older  man  and  sat  down. 
His  tone  was  serious  again.  "I  suppose,  Mr.  Bradshaw, 
you  think  my  angle  on  the  Tenderloin  question  is  all 
wrong." 

"I  certainly  do,"  answered  Bradshaw.  "I  heard  you 
talking  lo  Gleason  on  that  subject  too,  and  I  was  shocked 
to  think  that  a  young  man  like  you  would  defend  any- 
thing so  infamous." 

Bellamy  did  not  hide  his  resentment  this  time.  "I 
wasn't  defending  it,  sir.  I  was  only  citing  some  rather 
convincing  crime  statistics  from  other  cities  which  eradi- 
cated their  Tenderloin  districts  several  years  ago  and  are 

97 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

now  balancing  up  their  police  court  records."  He  turned 
quickly  to  Bradshaw.  "But  don't  get  the  notion  I  am 
trying  to  be  smart,  for  I'm  not.  It  is  my  conviction  that 
there  are  two  sides  to  this  question,  just  like  every  other 
question,  and  I  told  Gleason  so.  I  know  the  one  side  is 
rotten  enough.  Any  reporter  who  has  ever  done  police 
court  knows  that.  But  if  I  were  in  the  mayor's  place  and 
had  it  in  my  power  to  close  'em  or  let  'em  run,  and 
I  wanted  to  be  on  the  square  with  my  own  con- 
science  "  He  stopped  and  thought  a  moment.  .  .  . 

"Well,  I  swear  I  don't  know  what  I'd  do." 

"It's  extremely  fortunate  for  this  community,"  Brad- 
shaw commented  ironically,  "that  you  are  not  the  mayor." 

"Maybe,"  acquiesced  Bellamy,  with  a  whimsical  smile. 
"Still,  I  don't  know — I  might  get  by.  I  had  some  good 
lessons  at  mayoring  once." 

Bradshaw  snorted  with  contempt.  "Lessons,  huh? 
From  whom?" 

"From  old  Sam  Jones  in  Toledo,"  replied  the  other, 
arising  and  facing  Bradshaw.  "I  went  there  once  on 
some  political  work  and  met  Jones.  You  remember  him 
— they  called  him  Golden  Rule  Jones  because  he  operated 
on  the  do-unto-others-as-you-would-be-done-by  plan.  His 
police  court  was  a  court  of  rehabilitation.  He  found  the 
good  that  is  in  every  man  and  built  on  it.  And  Toledo 
was  what  they  call  a  wide-open  town.  There  were  a  lot 
of  reformers  and  shouters  busy,  of  course.  A  commit- 
tee just  like  yours  called  on  Jones  one  day  to  ask  him 
to  close  up  the  Tenderloin."  Bellamy  chuckled.  "I  was 
in  the  office  at  the  time.  Jones  listened  patiently  to 
their  argument.  When  they  got  through,  he  grinned 
pleasantly.  'All  right,  fellows/  he  said.  'Let's  shut  her 
up.  I  don't  want  the  Tenderloin  here  any  more  than 
98 


you  do.'  The  committee  beamed  on  him.  'Now,'  said 
Jones,  'there  are  only  two  ways  to  do  it'  'Well?'  said 
the  committee,  congratulating  themselves  on  the  ease  with 
which  they  had  converted  the  Mayor.  'The  first  way,' 
explained  Jones,  'is  to  chloroform  all  the  inmates — that 
would  be  murder,  and  we  can't  do  that,  can  we?'  The 
committee  shook  their  heads.  'And  the  only  other  way,' 
continued  Jones,  'is  to  drive  these  women  from  our  town 
into  surrounding  towns ;  and  that  would  be  like  dumping 
our  garbage  over  our  back  fence.  It  would  be  un- 
neighbourly  and  an  unchristian-like  proceeding,  and  I  am 
sure  that  none  of  you  fellows  would  think  well  of  that.' 
The  committee  were  nonplussed.  'So,'  said  Jones,  aris- 
ing, 'I  guess  we  had  better  just  let  things  be  as  they  are.' " 

Bradshaw  sniffed  contemptuously  and  went  back  to  his 
work,  indicating  that  he  did  not  wish  to  hear  any  more. 

But  Bellamy  ignored  his  action,  and  continued: 

"The  committee  got  as  far  as  the  door  when  Jones 
had  an  idea.  'Hold  on,  you  fellows,'  he  said.  'There 
might  be  a  way  out  of  it  after  all.  Now,  just  supposing 
we  good  citizens  of  Toledo  take  these  women  into  our 
homes  as  guests  or  servants,  and  let  our  wives  and  daugh- 
ters reform  them.  Now  you  can  put  Mrs.  Jones  down 
for  two.  How  many  will  your  wives  take  ?'  " 

Bellamy  slapped  his  knee  and  laughed. 

"Say,"  he  went  on,  "the  Chairman  of  that  committee 
hit  the  ceiling  like  a  skyrocket.  'Take  these  women  into 
our  homes!'  he  hollered.  'I've  always  heard  that  you 
were  a  fool,  Jones,  and  now  I  know  it  first  hand !'  And 
the  meeting  busted  up  right  there." 

Bradshaw  was  secretly  impressed.  A  new  point  of 
view  had  begun  to  creep  in  his  calculations  since  the 
experience  of  the  night  before.  But  when  he  spoke  he 

99 


Tiie  Eternal  Magdalene 

gave  no  indication  of  having  capitulated  even  in  the 
slightest  degree. 

"So,"  he  remarked,  "that's  where  you  got  your  ideas 
— from  a  mountebank  mayor?" 

Bellamy  arose. 

"Some  of  them,"  he  answered  carelessly.  "But,"  he 
added,  like  a  man  who  had  forgotten  something  and  had 
it  suddenly  occur  to  him,  "we're  off  on  a  tangent.  Have 
you  given  any  thought  to  the  question  I  asked  you  a  little 
while  ago?  .  .  .  Have  I  any  chance?" 

"I  told  you  you  haven't,"  Bradshaw  said  angrily. 

"Just  the  same,"  the  other  said,  smiling,  "I'll  ask  you 
again — and  I'll  keep  on  asking.  Maybe  you'll  change 
your  mind  about  that  and  other  things.  You  may  even 
change  your  mind  on  this  social  cleaning-up  proposition ; 
at  any  rate,  I  hope  you  will." 

Bradshaw  now  saw  a  way  to  close  the  discussion. 

"My  dear  young  man,"  he  said,  "I  think  I  am  safe  in 
promising  that  if  I  do  change  my  mind  on  that  question, 
I  will  on  all  others." 

Bellamy  caught  up  his  words  eagerly.  "That's  a  bet! 
I  will  hold  you  to  that  promise." 

He  held  out  his  hand  and  Bradshaw  shook  it  reluc- 
tantly. 

Five  minutes  after  he  had  gone,  Otto  entered  the  room 
with  a  letter. 

"This  just  came  for  you,  sir,"  he  said,  handing  it  to 
Bradshaw.  Then  he  left  the  room  quietly. 

The  man  looked  at  the  envelope  curiously.  It  was 
unlike  the  other  letters  he  received.  It  was  on  cheap 
stationery,  and  the  writing  was  round  and  unformed  as  if 
a  child  might  have  written  it.  It  was  blotted,  too,  and 
his  name  was  misspelled.  He  opened  it  with  a  feeling 
100 


The  Curse 

of  alarm,  although  he  could  not  account  for  his  emotion. 
There  was  nothing  on  the  outside  to  indicate  what  was 
within.  Yet  he  had  a  feeling  that  the  contents  held 
something  unusual  and  unpleasant.  As  he  glanced  down 
the  page  he  saw  that  the  letter  was  unevenly  written  and 
poorly  punctuated,  as  if  its  author  had  been  struggling 
with  an  unfamiliar  medium. 

It  ran:  "Mister  Bradshaw.  Last  night  I  was  ar- 
rested and  thrown  into  jail.  This  morning  the  madam 
came  and  paid  my  fine.  I  went  back  to  my  house  on 
Bridge  Street,  everything  I  had,  clothes,  etc.,  was  throwed 
out  in  the  street.  I  didn't  have  any  money  and  I  haven't 
got  any  friends.  There  was  nowhere  for  me  to  go.  I 
went  out  in  your  park  and  met  a  man,  he  gave  me 
five  dollars.  In  the  afternoon  the  coppers  come  to  me 
and  said  you  get  out  or  you'll  be  put  in  jail.  This  is  all 
your  doing,  you  and  Gleason  are  to  blame.  I  wasn't 
troubling  any  one  and  I  have  a  brother  I  am  sending  to 
school,  and  don't  think  I'll  ever  forget  you  or  your 
friend  Gleason.  Look  what  you  have  done  to  me  and 
my  little  brother.  This  is  my  home  town  like  it  is  yours 
and  I'm  going  to  stay  here  as  long  as  I  want  to  in  spite 
of  you  and  the  rotten  police,  and  I'll  curse  you  every 
minute  of  the  time  and  this  will  be  the  curse  which  I 
will  work  on  you — your  own  daughter  will  be  ruined, 
your  son  will  turn  out  a  thief,  and  your  wife  will  die  and 
you  will  die  also  hated  by  everybody.  Now  that  is  my 
curse  and  it  will  come  true.  I  know  it  will  come  true,  my 
mother  was  a  Spaniard,  and  she  always  taught  me  that  a 
curse  comes  true." 

The  letter  was  signed  "Mable  Mordaunt." 
The  letter  fell  from  Bradshaw's  fingers.     Ordinarily 
such  a  communication  would  not  have  affected  him,  but 

TOI 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

the  crudeness  and  simplicity  of  this  epistle  planted  an 
uncanny  fear  in  his  heart.  He  remembered  the  words 
of  the  Woman  when  she  had  told  him  that  there  were 
hundreds  like  her  who  were  cursing  him  for  what  he  had 
done.  The  tragedy  of  the  night  before  had  unstrung  him, 
and  this  letter,  coming,  as  it  did,  when  he  was  shaken 
and  unnerved,  frightened  him  almost  like  sorcery.  He 
was  not  a  superstitious  man,  but  the  strangeness  of  the 
events  during  the  past  twelve  hours  had  brought  him 
face  to  face  with  those  hidden  mysteries  of  life  at  which 
heretofore  he  had  been  inclined  to  scoff. 

As  he  sat  looking  at  the  letter  his  face  was  tense  and 
pale.  He  thought  of  the  Woman  now  in  his  home,  and 
was  overpowered  by  some  unaccountable  horror,  as  if  the 
veil  had  been  snatched  from  the  serene  surface  of  life 
and  there  had  been  revealed  to  him  those  cryptic  currents 
which  lay  beyond  the  understanding  of  man. 

Martha  Bradshaw  entered  the  room  unnoticed. 

"I  thought  you  had  gone  to  the  office,"  she  began. 
Then  she  saw  the  look  on  his  face,  and  the  terror  in  his 
eyes,  and  came  toward  him  quickly. 

"What  is  it,  Elijah?"  she  asked,  frightened.  "What 
has  happened?" 

He  drew  himself  together  and  smiled  weakly. 

"Nothing  of  any  importance,"  he  said,  "only  this  letter 
gave  me  a  shock  for  a  moment.  ...  I  suppose  I  was 
foolish  to  give  it  a  second  thought." 

Alartha  Bradshaw  read  it  and  said  nothing  for  a  long 
time.  Her  hand,  too,  trembled  a  little,  and  the  colour 
went  from  her  face. 

"It's  awful!"  she  breathed.  "It  frightens  me.  What 
a  terrible  curse !" 

The  sight  of  his  wife's  condition  made  the  man  forget 
1 02 


The  Curse 

for  the  moment  his  own  feelings.    He  went  to  her  and 
patted  her  on  the  shoulder. 

"There,  there,"  he  said  consolingly,  laughing  a  little, 
"it  means  nothing.  I  suppose  I  ought  to  expect  this  sort 
of  thing."  He  folded  the  letter  and  put  it  in  his  pocket. 
"You  always  did  have  a  touch  of  superstition  in  you," 
he  added.  .  .  .  "Now  I  must  be  off." 

He  rang  for  his  hat  and  coat. 

"Good-bye,  dear,"  he  said,  trying  to  appear  indifferent. 

When  he  had  gone,  Mrs.  Bradshaw  sat  very  still  for 
some  minutes,  gazing  fixedly  ahead  of  her. 

The  Woman  entered  noiselessly  and  came  down  the 
room  to  where  the  other  sat.  There  was  grief  in  her 
eyes  as  she  looked  at  the  seated  figure.  She  paused  behind 
Martha  Bradshaw's  chair  as  if  she  desired  to  offer  com- 
fort but  did  not  know  how  to  approach  her. 

"Are  you  troubled  about  anything  ?"  she  asked,  after  a 
moment's  hesitation,  in  a  voice  fraught  with  compassion. 

The  seated  woman  turned  and  looked  into  her  serv- 
ant's eyes.  Some  deep  understanding  passed  between 
them.  All  consciousness  of  caste  fell  from  them.  They 
were  merely  two  women  bound  together  by  the  common 
tie  of  some  unspoken  grief. 

"My  husband  has  received  a  girl's  curse  in  the  form  of 
a  letter,"  Martha  Bradshaw  answered  simply. 

"And  it  has  made  you  suffer,"  the  Woman  answered. 
"It  may  be  all  for  the  best,"  she  went  on  gently.  "It  may 
be  part  of  some  great  plan  to  bring  your  husband,  through 
the  fire  of  suffering,  to  a  truer  understanding  of  the 
tragedies  of  others.  ...  I  am  sorry  for  your  sake.  But 
it  is  always  the  woman's  part  to  help  bear  the  burdens 
for  those  they  love." 

"You  believe  that  ?"  asked  the  other. 

103 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

"I  know  it,"  the  Woman  answered. 

"I  don't  understand  you — or  why  you  are  here,"  Mar- 
tha Bradshaw  said  slowly.  "But  somehow  I  feel  that 
you  belong  here — that  we  have  always  been  waiting  for 
your  coming,  and  never  knew  it." 


104 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  STORM-CLOUD 

JUDGE  AMOS  BASCOMB  sat  in  his  luxurious  offices 
talking  with  his  architect  and  builder.  His  hand- 
some terraces  on  Livingston  Avenue  had  just  been  com- 
pleted, and  already  the  tenants  were  moving  in.  Every 
suite  of  rooms  had  been  taken  months  before  the  build- 
ings were  completed.  Livingston  Avenue  was  one  of  the 
handsomest  residential  streets  in  Edenburg,  and  although 
the  property  owners  had  at  first  objected  to  the  Judge's 
scheme  of  erecting  his  terraces,  they  had  given  in  when 
they  had  seen  the  houses'  prospective  beauty  in  the  plans. 
The  erection  of  these  modern  and  expensive  flats  had 
been  a  fond  desire  of  the  Judge's  ever  since  he  had  re- 
signed from  the  Judiciary.  He  had  always  wished  to 
build  in  Edenburg  a  group  of  the  most  beautiful  apart- 
ment buildings  which  the  city  had  ever  owned. 

To-day  his  favourite  enterprise  had  been  completed. 
When  he  spoke  to  his  builder  it  was  with  unfeigned  de- 
light and  satisfaction  for  what  had  been  accomplished. 
BraMshaw,  as  a  friend  of  Judge  Bascomb's,  had  used  his 
influence  to  make  them  a  success,  and  the  Judge  had 
been  grateful.  When  Bradshaw  in  his  turn  had  called 
upon  the  Judge  to  lend  his  name  to  the  vice  crusade, 
the  latter  had  readily  acquiesced.  He  was  far  from 
being  a  devout  man,  but  he  did  not  let  his  personal 
prejudices  and  habits  stand  in  the  way  of  allying  himself 

105 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

with  so  valuable  a  constituency  as  the  citizens  who  were 
back  of  the  reform  movement.  To  be  sure,  the  Judge 
attended  Smollet's  services,  but  even  in  this  practice  he 
was  simply  following  out  the  indications  of  a  commercial 
compass. 

When  he  retired  from  membership  in  the  Judiciary  he 
was  a  much  wealthier  man  than  when  he  had  entered  it. 
No  one  seemed  to  know  just  where  he  had  acquired  his 
money.  And  although  there  was  some  hint  of  irregulari- 
ties and  briberies,  no  charges  against  the  Judge  had  ever 
been  substantiated.  His  social  popularity  had  tended  to 
discourage  any  unpleasant  speculations  on  the  part  of 
those  who  knew  him,  and  the  subject  of  his  wealth  had 
become  an  accepted  and  commonplace  fact  to  which 
attached  no  stricture.  During  the  ten  years  of  his  retire- 
ment  he  had  devoted  himself  to  many  business  enter- 
prises, had  taken  elaborate  quarters  in  one  of  Eden- 
burg's  largest  office  buildings,  and  had  become  an  im- 
portant factor  in  Edenburg's  commercial  life. 

He  was  now  a  man  of  about  sixty-five,  white-haired 
and  smooth-shaven.  He  was  robust  and  hearty,  with  a 
slight  leaning  toward  corpulency,  and  was  considered  a 
jovial  and  pleasant  companion.  Though  he  had  never 
married,  he  was  fond  of  women  impersonally  and  in  the 
aggregate,  and  they  on  their  part  found  him  agreeable 
and  attractive.  He  lived  extravagantly,  enjoyed  the  good 
things  of  life,  and  entertained  lavishly.  He  was  an  in- 
timate friend  of  Elijah  Bradshaw  and  other  prominent 
citizens  of  Edenburg,  had  always  contributed  generously 
to  charity,  and  was  much  sought  after  as  an  after-dinner 
speaker,  no  matter  what  the  occasion.  In  some  way  or 
other  he  had  a  hand  in  all  the  important  movements  of 
the  city's  social  and  economic  life.  But  in  his  activities 
1 06 


The  Storm-Cloud 

he  always  had  a  shrewd  and  penetrating  eye  on  his  own 
welfare  and  the  advantages  to  be  gained  by  his  popular- 
ity. He  had  lined  himself  up  with  the  reformers  for 
the  same  reason  that  pirates  sometimes  consider  it  ex- 
pedient to  wear  masks  when  scuttling  a  ship. 

The  younger  men  of  Edenburg  looked  upon  him  as  a 
gay  and  worldly  old  gentleman  worthy  of  emulation.  And 
though  there  were  extant  many  tales  of  unconventional 
escapades  in  which  he  played  the  part  of  host,  his  hearty 
and  good-natured  manner  was  such  that  his  acts  were  al- 
ways forgiven.  He  drank  much,  though  he  rarely  showed 
the  effects  of  this  indulgence.  Being  unmarried,  he  was 
a  victim  of  corrosive  gossip.  There  were  times  when 
he  had  been  on  the  brink  of  ostracism  in  certain  of  the 
more  strait-laced  quarters  of  the  city,  but  it  always 
happened  that  he  managed  to  escape  that  fate  and  suc- 
ceeded in  reinstating  himself  to  the  good  graces  of 
those  who  had  questioned  the  propriety  of  his  pri- 
vate life. 

His  name  appeared  regularly  in  the  public  prints. 
When  he  walked  down  Edenburg's  business  streets  he 
was  accosted  familiarly  but  with  respect  by  most  of  thef 
prominent  men  who  met  him;  and  in  all  the  principal 
cafes  and  restaurants  he  was  treated  deferentially.  He 
was  generous  in  his  expenditures  and  paid  his  bills 
promptly.  For  this  reason  much  was  forgiven  him ;  many 
concessions  were  made  him.  He  was  active,  too,  in  the 
sporting  life  of  Edenburg,  and  seemed  to  have  many 
secret  wires  which  he  could  pull  with  its  government 
when  occasion  demanded  it. 

"By  the  end  of  the  week,  Arthur,"  he  said  to  his 
builder,  checking  off  the  floor  plans  of  his  terraces,  "every 
suite  will  be  occupied — and  by  the  best  class  of  people 

107 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

it  is  possible  to  get.  Smollet  has  sent  me  a  dozen.  Good 
old  Smollet !  He  should  have  been  a  business  man,  not  a 
minister.  And — what  do  you  think,  Arthur? — I  offered 
to  pay  him  an  agent's  commission  on  the  side  for  using 
his  influence  among  his  parishioners,  and  he  refused  to 
take  a  cent!  .  .  .  No;  after  all,"  he  laughed,  "I  guess 
Smollet  wouldn't  make  a  good  business  man.  He's  too 
damned  conscientious." 

He  paused  a  moment  and  drew  before  him  an  estimate 
which  his  contractor  had  made  for  the  garden  work  of 
the  terraces'  lawns. 

"I  have  decided,  Arthur,  to  let  you  go  ahead  with 
your  ideas,"  he  said  abruptly.  "The  price  is  high,  but  I 
don't  want  any  competition  in  other  quarters.  Put  in 
those  imported  trees,  and  get  to  work  on  the  job  at  once. 
I  want  the  yards  in  ship-shape  condition  by  the  end  of 
the  week." 

"You're  doing  the  right  thing,  Judge,"  the  other  as- 
sured him.  "You've  got  a  gold-mine  in  those  houses,  and 
there's  no  excuse  for  economy." 

"That's  the  way  I  figured  it,"  the  Judge  replied.  "Now 
get  busy." 

After  a  few  minutes'  scrutiny  of  the  plans  before 
him,  he  put  on  his  silk  hat  and  drove  to  Bradshaw's 
office. 

"Bradshaw,"  he  announced  suavely,  when  he  had  been 
admitted,  "I  want  to  get  a  big  story  in  the  newspapers 
about  my  new  terraces.  I  wouldn't  trouble  you,  only  I 
know  that  you  stand  pretty  close  with  young  Bellamy,  and 
he  seems  to  have  things  his  own  way  on  the  Star.  If  he'd 
write  the  story  for  me  it  would  suit  me  down  to  the 
ground.  .  .  .  Do  you  feel  like  asking  him?" 

Elijah  Bradshaw  smiled  craftily.  "The  easiest  thing 
108 


The  Storm-Cloud 

in  the  world,  Judge.  And  what's  more,  I  can  promise 
you  that  Bellamy  will  do  it.  Only  this  morning  he  asked 
to  marry  my  daughter  Elizabeth.  .  .  .  Come  to  my  house 
this  evening,  and  I'll  have  Bellamy  there." 

The  Judge  thanked  him  and  departed. 

All  that  morning  Bradshaw  had  tried  to  work,  but 
the  events  of  the  night  before,  coupled  with  the  letter  he 
had  received  that  morning,  so  occupied  his  thoughts  that 
it  was  only  with  the  greatest  difficulty  that  he  could  keep 
his  mind  on  his  tasks.  Several  times  he  had  taken  the 
letter  from  his  pocket  and  reread  it.  It  had  cast  a  spell 
over  him,  and  though  he  strove  to  throw  it  off,  he  could 
not  react  from  its  influence. 

As  he  was  about  to  go  to  luncheon  one  of  his  fore- 
women asked  to  see  him.  She  held  in  her  hand  a  news- 
paper. 

"Mr.  Bradshaw,"  she  asked,  placing  the  paper  on  his 
desk,  "what  do  you  want  me  to  do  about  this?" 

The  item  to  which  she  pointed  told  of  a  Mrs.  Young 
on  Orchard  Street  who  was  suing  her  husband  for 
divorce.  It  was  a  spectacular  case  which  the  papers  were 
playing  up  because  of  certain  racy  details  in  the  woman's 
petition. 

"You  know,"  the  forewoman  explained,  "Mrs.  Young 
is  the  girl  who  works  in  the  jewelry  department.  Her 
prettiness  has  already  attracted  enough  of  atten- 
tion— and  I  know  how  you  feel  about  these  things. 
Her  husband  is  one  of  the  Chipping  clerks  here,  and 
it  looks  as  though  the  store  might  be  in  for  a  little 
scandal." 

Elijah  Bradshaw  had  always  been  strict  when  it  came 
to  the  private  actions  of  his  employes.  Before  he  would 
give  a  girl  or  a  man  a  position  his  first  demand  on  them 

109 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

was  a  recommendation  of  character.  It  was  in  line  with 
all  his  theories  and  beliefs,  and  the  papers  had  often 
commended  him  for  his  attitude. 

When  he  had  finished  reading  the  story,  which  was 
accompanied  by  a  large  cut  of  the  girl,  he  answered 
harshly:  "Of  course,  we  can't  stand  for  this.  We  must 
get  rid  of  both  of  them  at  once.  .  .  .  You  should  have 
attended  to  it  without  coming  to  me." 

The  woman  hesitated. 

"The  fact  is,  Mr.  Bradshaw,"  she  said,  "I  did  go  to  the 
girl  and  tell  her  she  would  have  to  go,  but  she  cried  and 
said  she  had  no  money  and  no  other  way  to  support  her- 
self— especially  now  that  she  had  left  her  husband.  She 
told  a  pitiful  story  of  his  abuse;  and  inasmuch  as  there 
seemed  to  be  extenuating  circumstances  I  thought  it  best 
to  consult  you.  .  .  ." 

"I  see,"  Bradshaw  replied  imperturbably.  "But,  after 
all,  it's  no  fault  of  ours.  The  good  name  of  the  store 
comes  first.  This  is  not  a  philanthropic  institution.  The 
girl  will  have  to  look  out  for  herself.  Let  her  check  in 
at  once." 

He  waved  his  hand  in  dismissal,  and  the  woman  left 
the  room. 

The  next  moment  the  incident  was  forgotten,  so  far  as 
Bradshaw  was  concerned. 

That  afternoon  he  went  home  early.  His  head  had 
ached  and  he  had  been  unfit  for  work.  He  had  tele- 
phoned to  Bellamy  and  asked  him  to  call  that  evening. 
In  his  study  he  met  the  Woman  arranging  flowers  on  his 
desk. 

"Well,  how  do  you  find  it?"  he  asked  her. 

"I  like  it  here,"  the  Woman  answered  serenely.  "But 
I  could  see  this  morning  that  you  were  worried.  Per- 
no 


The  Storm-Cloud 

haps  you  weren't  sure  of  me  keeping  your  secret.  I  don't 
want  you  ever  to  give  that  a  thought.  I  shall  never  break 
my  word.  I  like  your  wife  and  your  children.  I  shall 
do  nothing  to  give  them  pain." 

Bradshaw  regarded  her  closely.  "I  am  glad  of  that. 
Do  you  think  you  will  be  content  here  under  the  circum- 
stances ?" 

"Quite  content,"  the  Woman  answered.  "You  see,  I 
have  a  mission  here." 

Bradshaw  did  not  understand.     "A  mission?" 

The  Woman  smiled  enigmatically. 

"I  want  you  to  see  things  in  their  true  light,"  she  said. 
Then  she  looked  at  him  fixedly.  "Have  you  done  any- 
thing to-day  which  might  hurt  your  conscience  ?" 

For  the  first  time  since  the  forewoman  had  left  his 
office  to  carry  out  his  instructions,  Bradshaw  thought  of 
the  girl  he  had  discharged.  Why  that  should  have  come 
to  his  mind  at  this  moment  he  did  not  know.  Yet  the 
Woman's  gaze  on  him,  together  with  the  memory  of  his 
act,  made  him  feel  a  slight  tinge  of  guilt.  Could  she  in 
any  way  have  found  out  ?  The  question  flashed  through 
his  mind,  but  went  as  quickly  as  it  came.  He  dismissed 
it  as  an  absurdity.  Then  he  smiled. 

"No,"  he  said. 

"Are  you  sure  ?"  the  Woman  asked  him. 

"Of  course,  I  am  sure,"  he  replied  quickly,  resentful 
because  of  her  question.  "Now  leave  me.  I  want  to 
rest  a  while  before  dinner." 

The  Woman  turned  without  a  word,  a  look  of  hope- 
less sorrow  on  her  face,  and  walked  silently  out  of  the 
room. 

Bradshaw  watched  her  until  she  had  disappeared. 
Then  with  a  shrug  he  dismissed  any  suspicion  which 

in 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

might  have  been  in  his  mind,  and  sat  down  in  an  easy 
chair. 

An  hour  later,  when  he  went  into  dinner,  he  noticed 
that  his  son's  chair  was  vacant. 

"Where's  Paul?"  he  demanded. 

Martha  Bradshaw  looked  at  him  sadly.  "I  don't  know, 
Elijah,  Paul  seems  to  be  drifting  away  from  us.  Lately, 
when  I  have  asked  him  where  he  has  been,  he  has  been 
irritable  and  evasive.  Sometimes,  I  think  we  are  too 
strict  with  him.  I  think  he'd  stay  home  more  if  the 
atmosphere  were  different.  He's  twenty- four  now  and 
resents  being  treated  like  a  child." 

"Resents  my  treatment  of  him?"  Bradshaw  flared  up 
angrily.  "He's  a  young  ingrate !  Only  last  night  he  tried 
to  argue  with  me  that  he  shouldn't  go  to  the  Gleason 
meeting.  .  .  .  I'll  give  him  something  to  resent  when  I 
get  hold  of  him.  This  is  downright  disobedience.  I  told 
him  to  come  home  to  dinner  and  to  go  with  you  and 
Elizabeth  to  the  Tabernacle  to-night,  and  here  it  is  seven 
o'clock  and  he  hasn't  turned  up  yet.  He  gets  out  of  the 
bank  at  five  o'clock,  and  there's  no  excuse  for  his  not  be- 
ing here  now.  .  .  .  But  he'll  show  up  for  the  meeting," 
Bradshaw  added.  "Sometimes  I  wonder  if  there  isn't  a 

woman  at  the  bottom  of  his  recalcitrance.  If  there 
js » 

He  clenched  his  fist  and  snapped  his  teeth  together. 
He  would  have  said  something  more,  but  he  felt  the  som- 
bre eyes  of  the  Woman  on  him.  He  looked  up  and  met 
her  gaze  for  the  fraction  of  a  second.  There  was  a 
reprimand  in  her  eyes,  as  if  she  had  suddenly  become  an 
intermediary  between  him  and  his  son — a  protector  of 
the  young  man. 

Martha  Bradshaw  shook  her  head  a  trifle  hopelessly. 

112 


The  Storm-Cloud 

"You're  too  hard  on  Paul,"  she  said;  "he's  not  a  bad 
boy." 

"Of  course  he's  not,"  put  in  Elizabeth,  "but  Paul  likes 
to  have  fun.  Why  shouldn't  he  ?  You  don't  know,  dad, 
what  it  means  to  be  shut  up  here  all  the  time  and  made 
to  do  this  and  that." 

"That  will  do!"  Bradshaw  brought  the  discussion  to 
an  end.  Throughout  the  rest  of  the  meal  no  further 
reference  was  made  to  the  subject. 

During  the  coffee,  the  door  bell  rang.  Bradshaw 
turned  to  the  Woman. 

"Answer  that,"  he  said.  "It  is  probably  Judge  Bas- 
comb.  I  am  expecting  him  and  Bellamy  to-night.  Tell 
him  to  wait  for  me  in  the  study." 

The  Woman  went  as  she  was  bid.  Judge  Bascomb 
and  the  Reverend  Smollet  were  outside.  She  held  the 
door  open  and  led  them  into  the  study. 

"Mr.  Bradshaw  has  not  quite  finished  his  dinner,"  she 
said,  taking  their  hats.  "He  asks  that  you  be  so  kind  as 
to  wait  for  him." 

The  Judge  regarded  her  critically,  letting  his  twinkling 
eyes  run  up  and  down  her.  He  chuckled  a  little  as  he 
sat  down. 

"Thank  you  very  much,"  he  said  courteously,  almost 
sweetly.  As  she  left  the  room  his  eyes  followed  her. 

"Rather  attractive  young  person,  Smollet,"  he  com- 
mented with  a  grin. 

"Quite,"  returned  Smollet  stiffly.  Then  he  added :  "I 
never  saw  her  before.  She's  a  new  addition  to  the  house- 
hold." 

The  old  Judge  was  rubbing  his  hands  together,  still 
looking  down  the  hall  after  the  retreating  Woman. 

"Something  of  a  beauty,  too,  I  should  say,  Smollet. 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

.  .  .  Are  you  anything — of  a — connoisseur  in  these  mat- 
ters?" 

Smollet,  pleased  at  the  Judge's  assumption  of  his 
worldliness,  replied:  "Hardly;  I  leave  that  to  your 
judicial  discretion." 

Bascomb  laughed.  "I  am  afraid  I  am  prejudicial 
where  pretty  women  are  concerned.  As  for  discretion 
— well,  that  comes  with  years,  and  you  know  I  am  still 
in  my  early  twenties."  He  arose  and  walked  up  and 
down  jauntily,  in  the  imitation  of  youth. 

Smollet  laughed  at  his  antics. 

"Oh,  yes,  Judge,"  he  agreed  smoothly.  "You  get 
younger  every  day." 

The  Judge  turned,  his  face  bright  with  having  received 
this  compliment.  "But  I  hope  the  time  will  never  come 
when  I  can't  admire  a  pretty  face — or — figure." 

The  Reverend  Smollet  was  a  little  shocked,  but  he 
nevertheless  said  "Amen"  with  forced  facetiousness. 

The  Judge's  manner  became  serious.  He  knitted  his 
brow  as  if  trying  to  remember  something. 

"This  girl  looks  familiar.  I've  seen  her  somewhere,  I 
think."  He  was  confused  by  the  startled  look  on  Smol- 
let's  face.  "Some  other  home,"  he  supplied  hastily. 
"She's  simply  a  housemaid,  isn't  she  ?"  His  tone  became 
penetrating  once  more.  "It  shows  how  much  confidence 
Mrs.  Bradshaw  has  in  her  husband,  having  such  pretty 
girls  about." 

"Bradshaw  never  gives  her  cause  to  worry  on  that 
score,"  Smollet  assured  the  Judge  with  seriousness.  He 
felt  that  his  friend  should  be  defended  from  any  sug- 
gestion of  calumny. 

"Oh,  of  course  not,  Smollet,"  the  Judge  replied.  "That 
was  only  a  little  joke  of  mine."  He  looked  around  the 
114 


The  Storm-Cloud 

room.  "Bradshaw  has  a  very  pleasant  time  here.  .  .  . 
Well,  he  deserves  it.  He's  what  I  call  a  self-made  man, 
if  there  ever  was  one.  Full  of  real  American  stuff. 
Has  the  courage  of  his  convictions,  too — and  that's  what 
a  lot  of  us  lack." 

To  all  of  that  Smollet  agreed  enthusiastically.  "Gen- 
uinely successful,  I  call  him.  He  has  plenty  of  money 
which  he  earned  himself — honestly.  He  has  a  remark- 
able family,  too — a  wife  any  man  would  be  proud  of, 
a  sweet  and  beautiful  daughter,  and  a  promising  son." 

The  Judge  sat  down.  "Yes,  he  seems  to  have  achieved 
happiness — if  there  is  any  such  commodity  in  the  world. 
He  is  certainly  to  be  envied." 

"And  furthermore,"  added  Smollet,  "what  is  of  more 
importance  of  all — he  is  a  God-fearing,  charitable  citi- 
zen." 

The  Judge  drew  up  his  mouth  queerly  and  said :  "Let 
us  hope  that  God  will  not  play  the  trick  on  him  he  did 
on  our  old  friend  Job." 

"  'Whom  the  Lord  loveth  He  chasteneth,'  "  quoted  the 
other. 

At  this  moment  Bellamy  rang  and  was  admitted. 

"Good  evening,  gentlemen,"  he  said  pleasantly.  He 
looked  at  the  Judge  in  quizzical  good  humour.  "Ah,  I 
smell  a  plot.  .  .  .  Well,  whatever  it  is,  Judge,  you'll  find 
me  a  willing  and  ready  victim." 

"I  must  say,  Mr.  Bellamy,"  the  minister  hastened  to 
put  in,  seeing  his  friend's  abashment,  "that  you  have 
acted  splendidly  during  our  campaign.  You  have  helped 
us  a  great  deal." 

"Tut,  tut!"  the  reporter  replied.  "That's  part  of  my 
business.  If  you  were  in  favour  of  segregation,  I  would 
help  you  just  as  much — perhaps  a  little  more." 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

"What!"  exclaimed  Smollet.  "Do  you  mean  to  tell 
me  you  are  not  in  sympathy  with  us?" 

Bellamy  thought  a  moment.  "Has  it  ever  occurred  to 
you,  gentlemen,  that  there  are  two  sides  to  the  Tender- 
loin question?"  he  asked. 

"To  be  sure,"  the  Judge  agreed  readily.  "The  right 
side  and  the  wrong  side." 

"Just  that !"  replied  Bellamy,  smiling.  "There  are  lots 
of  people  of  intelligence,  doctors  among  them,  and  cer- 
tainly many  mothers,  who  believe  that  the  whole  crusade 
is  a  big  mistake." 

"But  you  are  certainly  not  one  of  them,  Mr.  Bellamy," 
protested  the  Reverend  Smollet  with  assurance. 

"Why,  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that."  The  young  man  drew 
up  a  chair  and  sat  down.  "In  my  business  I  get  a  pretty 
good  slant  of  both  sides.  You  know,  don't  you,  that  these 
women  are  not  leaving  town ;  they  are  simply  scattering. 
Lots  of  people  are  hollering  to  the  police  already  because 
their  neighbourhoods  are  being  invaded." 

The  Judge  laughed  heartily.  "Let  'em  holler!  Eh, 
Smollet?" 

The  minister  pursed  his  lips. 

"Well,"  he  drew  out  slowly,  "I  hope  what  Mr.  Bellamy 
says  isn't  altogether  true.  In  fact,  I  am  inclined  to  doubt 
it.  The  Chief  of  Police  assured  me  that  most  of  the 
women  would  be  forced  out  of  town." 

"That's  probably  what  the  Chief  hopes,  but  I  bet  he 
knows  better,"  Bellamy  replied. 

Bradshaw  entered  the  room. 

"Ah",  good  evening,  gentlemen,"  he  said,  without  en- 
thusiasm. "Smollet,  I'm  glad  to  see  you." 

"I  met  Smollet  on  his  way  to  the  Tabernacle,  and 
brought  him  along.  In  a  case  of  this  kind  it  is  good 
116 


The  Storm-Cloud 

perhaps  to  have  moral  support."     The  Judge  looked  at 
Bellamy  jocularly. 

"Perhaps,"  Bradshaw  commented.  "By  the  way, 
Bellamy,  the  reason  I  asked  you  to  come  here  to-night 
is  because  I  wanted  you  to  do  a  little  favour  for  the  Judge 
— and  me.  You  see,  the  Judge's  new  terraces  on  Liv- 
ingston Avenue  have  been  finished  to-day.  They  are 
very  beautiful  flats — the  finest  in  Edenburg — and  I  want 
to  make  sure  that  they  are  given  the  proper  display  in 
the  papers.  I  knew  you  would  be  glad  to  see  to  this  in 
the  Star" 

"Certainly,  Mr.  Bradshaw,"  Bellamy  answered  lightly. 
"We  strive  to  please.  Now,  Judge,  give  me  a  picture  of 
your  elevations — oh,  don't  tell  me  you  haven't  them  with 
you :  I  know  you  have ! — and  I'll  write  a  story  about 
them  that  will  make  the  descriptions  of  Gautier  read  like 
a  first  reader." 

The  Judge  handed  the  young  man  a  roll  of  pic- 
tures. 

"Very  good  of  you,  Bellamy,"  he  said,  offering  his 
hand. 

"Don't  mention  it,  Judge,"  the  other  replied  humor- 
ously. Then  he  smiled  broadly  and  significantly. 
"There's  not  any  of  your  other  property  you'd  perhaps 
like  to  have  written  up,  is  there?" 

Bascomb's  manner  suddenly  changed,  and  he  frowned. 

"No,  thank  you — certainly  not,"  he  replied  curtly. 

"Well,  now  that  my  usefulness  is  over,  I'll  be  off," 
Bellamy  announced,  bowing  adieu  to  the  three  men. 
Then  he  paused,  looking  first  at  the  Judge  and  then 
to  the  Reverend  Smollet.  "I'm  sorry  we  can't  prolong 
that  argument  on  the  Tenderloin.  I've  got  facts  up 
my  sleeve  that  would  amaze  you." 

117 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

"You  newspaper  men  are  a  menace  to  the  community," 
the  Judge  declared  banteringly. 

"Except  when  you  run  for  office,  or  want  your  en- 
terprises written  up — eh,  Judge?"  he  asked  in  good 
humour.  Then  he  turned  to  the  minister.  "Or  when 
Good  Samaritans  like  Dr.  Smollet  need  publicity  for 
their  New  Year's  Eve  grill-room  crusades — eh,  Rever- 
end? .  .  .  Good  night." 

In  the  hallway  he  met  Elizabeth. 

"What  was  father's  answer,  Jack?"  she  asked  him. 

"His  answer  was  'No' ;  but  I'm  not  through  with  him 
yet." 

"I'm  afraid  he'll  never  change  his  mind."  The  girl 
looked  at  him  wistfully.  "I  have  never  known  him 
to." 

"Well,  we'll  see,"  said  the  young  man,  and  he  stole 
a  kiss  from  her  as  he  went  out. 

"He's  a  precocious  young  fellow,"  Smollet  remarked 
in  an  attempt  to  recover  his  composure. 

"Precocious?"  The  Judge's  tone  was  a  little  angry. 
"He's  positively  pestiferous.  He's  actually  been  tell- 
ing us,  Bradshaw,  that  we've  made  a  mistake  in  this 
whole  campaign,  Gleason  and  all." 

Bradshaw  did  not  reply  at  once.  He  bowed  his  head 
as  if  in  thought.  "We  have  made  no  mistake,  gentle- 
men  " 

The  Woman  came  into  the  room  quietly  and  drew  the 
heavy  curtains  at  the  window.  She  crossed  to  the  fire- 
place and  put  on  another  piece  of  wood.  Then  she  went 
out  without  having  looked  at  any  one. 

Bradshaw  had  watched  her.  "That  is,"  he  corrected 
himself,  "I  hope  we  have  made  no  mistakes.  But  some- 
thing has  happened  that  makes  me  wish  I  had  not  taken 
118 


The  Storm-Cloud 

such  a  prominent  part  in  it.  ...  I  had  a  great  sorrow 
come  to  me  last  night." 

The  Reverend  Smollet  arose  and  crossed  the  room 
to  where  Bradshaw  sat. 

"Why,  my  dear  friend,"  he  said  consolingly.  "I 
never  dreamed  that  anything  had  happened." 

The  Judge  also  arose.  "I  am  sorry  to  hear  you  say 
this.  .  .  .  Smollet,  I  think  we  had  better  be  going. 
It  is  almost  time  for  the  meeting,  anyway.  Will  you 
join  us  later,  Bradshaw?" 

The  man  addressed  looked  up. 

"I  shall  try  to.  But  before  you  go  I  want  to  show 
you  a  letter  I  received  last  night." 

He  took  Mabel  Mordaunt's  communication  from  his 
pocket  and  handed  it  to  Smollet. 

The  minister  had  just  begun  to  read  it  when  he  was 
interrupted  by  the  hearty  voice  of  Gleason,  who  had 
admitted  himself  by  the  front  door  without  ringing 
and  stood  at  the  entrance  of  the  study. 

"Hello,  every  one !"  he  called.  "I  dropped  in  to  make 
sure  Bradshaw  wouldn't  slip  one  over  on  me  again 
to-night.  .  .  .  You  should  have  been  there  last  night, 
friend,"  he  added,  coming  down  the  room.  "Two  hun- 
dred and  eighty  hit  the  trail.  .  .  .  Say !"  He  waved  his 
arms.  "In  another  week  we  will  ring  the  curfew  on 
our  scarlet  sisters." 

"I  was  just  showing  Smollet  a  letter  I  got  this  morn- 
ing," Bradshaw  replied  quietly. 

"Oh,  a  squawk,  eh?"  Gleason  laughed  boisterously. 
"Don't  let  that  worry  you.  You  ought  to  see  some 
of  my  mail.  Say,  I  get  junk  every  day  that  would 
tie  a  can  to  anything  you  ever  saw."  He  turned  to 
Smollet.  "Let's  see  it,  friend.  I'll  bet  it's  a  riot." 

119 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

Gleason  took  the  letter  and  began  reading  it  aloud. 
At  first  his  tone  had  been  derisive,  but  as  he  read  on 
down  the  page  his  face  grew  more  solemn,  and  his  voice 
became  low  and  monotonous. 

When  he  began  the  Woman  had  appeared  in  the  hall- 
way, unseen  by  those  in  the  room.  She  stood  there  un- 
til the  man  had  finished,  a  troubled  look  on  her  face. 

Gleason  studied  the  letter  a  few  moments  before  he 
said  anything. 

"This  is  a  stiff  one,"  he  had  to  admit.  Then  he  threw 
his  head  back  and  laughed,  assuming  his  usual  hearty 
and  cocksure  manner.  "Oh,  well,  what's  the  dif?  .  .  . 
Anyhow,  you'd  better  cross  your  fingers,  Bradshaw."  He 
went  to  the  man  to  whom  he  had  spoken.  "Here,  put 
this  in  your  vanity  box,  and  forget  it." 

He  turned  and  started  for  the  door. 

"Come  on,  Smollet,  it's  getting  late.  When  I  passed 
the  Tabernacle  the  customers  were  coming  in  bunches. 
Keep  your  eye  peeled  for  the  fireworks  to-night.  .  .  .  Are 
you  coming,  Bradshaw?" 

"In  a  little  while;  in  a  little  while,"  the  other  re- 
plied, preoccupied,  again  held  under  the  spell  of  the 
letter.  He  did  not  move  or  look  up  as  the  other  three 
men  left  him. 

The  Woman  came  slowly  down  the  room  to  where 
he  sat. 

"I'm  very  sorry  about  that  letter,"  she  said  compas- 
sionately. "I  was  standing  in  the  hall,  and  I  heard  Mr. 
Gleason  read  it.  You  shouldn't  let  it  trouble  you.  If 
these  things  are  to  happen  to  you,  they  will  happen. 
If  not,  no  curse  can  bring  them  about." 

Bradshaw  looked  up  at  her  sharply.  For  the  first 
time  he  associated  the  letter  in  some  way  with  the  pres- 
120 


The  Storm-Cloud 

ence  of  the  Woman  in  the  house.  Perhaps,  this  too  was 
a  part  of  her  scheme,  he  thought.  It  might  have  been 
she  who  had  instigated  it.  She  might  even  have  writ- 
ten the  letter.  She  at  least  had  it  in  her  power  to  fulfil 
some  of  its  threats.  His  expression  of  worry  changed 
to  one  of  hatred. 

"You  know  something  about  this  letter,"  he  accused 
her.  "Tell  me  what  it  means." 

The  Woman  studied  him  pityingly. 

"I  know  nothing  of  the  letter,"  she  replied  calmly.  "I 
once  saw  the  girl  who  wrote  it — that  is  all.  Haven't 
I  told  you  that  I  am  not  here  to  harm  you,  but  to  help 
you?" 

Something  in  her  voice  reassured  the  man.  "I  am  a 
fool  to  give  the  letter  a  second  thought.  Only,  I  worry 
so  about  my  children.  My  daughter  is  irreligious,  and 
my  son  disobeys  me.  I  told  him  to  be  here  to  dinner 
to-night,  and  here  it  is  time  to  go  to  the  Tabernacle, 
and  he  has  not  appeared  yet.  And  since  you  came  I 
have  felt  all  the  time  as  if  I  were  on  the  point  of  being 
exposed  and  disgraced." 

The  Woman  touched  him  gently  on  his  arm. 

"If  you  are  disgraced  it  will  not  be  because  of  me. 
And  as  for  your  children,  they  are  unhappy  and  rest- 
less because  of  your  demands  on  them.  You  show  them 
too  little  tenderness  and  human  kindliness.  Have  you 
ever  thought  of  that?" 

Bradshaw  arose  and  brushed  the  Woman  aside. 

"What  business  have  you  criticising  me  ?  Why  should 
you  preach  to  me  in  this  manner?  All  I  want  from  you 
is  silence — and  you  have  given  me  your  word  to  keep 
it.  For  the  rest,  I  can  take  care  of  myself  and  my 
own." 

121 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

He  put  on  his  hat  and  went  out. 

The  Woman  drew  back  the  curtains  of  the  window 
and  watched  him  until  he  had  disappeared  in  the  shad- 
ows. When  she  turned  again  into  the  room  there  was 
a  sadness  and  disappointment  in  her  look,  as  one  who 
had  hoped  greatly  for  something  and  had  been  defeated. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

A  PRIESTESS  OF  APHRODITE  IN  A  LIMOUSINE 

IT  was  after  midnight  when  Paul  walked  cautiously 
up  the  front  roadway  to  his  home.  He  looked  up 
at  the  windows  anxiously.  There  was  no  light  and  he 
gave  a  sigh  of  relief.  He  stepped  on  tiptoe  across  the 
front  porch,  but  hesitated  before  ringing  the  bell.  He 
was  afraid  the  sound  of  his  entrance  would  arouse  his 
father ;  and  to-night  he  did  not  feel  like  having  a  scene. 
If  he  could  go  in  unnoticed,  he  planned  to  leave  for  his 
office  early  the  next  morning,  so  that  he  might  avoid 
altogether  coming  face  to  face  with  the  older  man.  As 
he  paused  undecidedly  before  the  door  he  was  paler  than 
usual,  and  his  hands  worked  nervously.  He  was  obvi- 
ously under  some  strain,  and  he  had  the  appearance  of 
one  who  had  gone  through  an  unpleasant  ordeal. 

As  he  approached  nearer  the  door,  endeavouring  to 
make  no  sound,  he  was  astonished  to  find  that  some 
one  from  the  inside  was  opening  it  noiselessly.  In  the 
faint  cool  moonlight  of  October  he  could  discern  dimly 
the  Woman  standing  with  her  hand  on  the  knob,  holding 
the  door  so  that  he  might  enter. 

"Be  careful,"  she  warned  him  in  a  whisper,  as  he 
stepped  into  the  room.  "Your  father  was  restless  to- 
night, and  he  may  be  awake.  If  he  hears  you  he  will 
come  down." 

"How  does  it  come  that  you  were  here  to  let  me  in  ?" 

123 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

the  young  man  asked,  dum founded  at  so  unusual  an 
occurrence. 

"I  knew  you  were  out,"  she  whispered.  "I  sat  up 
waiting  for  you.  Now  you  had  better  go  to  your  room 
and  try  to  get  a  good  rest." 

She  closed  the  door  and  locked  it  softly.  Then  she 
stood  aside  while  the  man  walked  up  the  stairs,  won- 
dering. 

The  next  morning  his  mother  came  to  his  room. 

"When  did  you  come  in,  son  ?"  she  asked  him  tenderly. 
"I  didn't  hear  you  last  night." 

He  told  her  how  he  had  been  admitted  and  repeated 
what  the  Woman  had  said  to  him. 

"There  is  something  strange  about  it,"  Martha  Brad- 
shaw  said,  as  if  to  herself.  "I  do  not  altogether  under- 
stand her.  She  is  an  unusual  woman.  But  somehow  I 
feel  safer  and  more  peaceful  when  she  is  around." 

There  came  a  knock  on  the  door.  The  Woman  her- 
self entered. 

"I  hear  your  father  rising,"  she  said,  addressing  her- 
self to  the  young  man.  "He  will  be  downstairs  in  half 
an  hour.  I  thought,  perhaps,  you  would  want  to  know." 

She  turned  and  went  out,  closing  the  door  behind  her 
softly. 

"Say,  she's  a  wonder!"  commented  Paul  to  his  mother. 
"How  did  she  know  I  wanted  to  get  out  before  dad 
came  down?" 

He  finished  his  dressing  hurriedly. 

"I'll  try  to  be  home  for  dinner  to-night,"  he  said, 
kissing  his  mother. 

He  went  below  and  hurried  out  of  the  house. 

Martha  Bradshaw  sat  a  while  in  her  son's  room.    Then 
she  rang  for  the  Woman. 
124 


In  a  Limousine 

"I  don't  feel  that  you  are  a  servant,"  she  said,  hesi- 
tatingly, when  the  Woman  had  entered.  "I  wish  you 
would  tell  me  something  about  yourself." 

The   other   smiled    quietly. 

"There  is  nothing  I  can  tell  you,"  she  said.  "I  am 
a  servant  in  the  house,  and  because  I  love  your 
children  and  want  to  help  them  you  mustn't  think  that 
I  am  anything  else." 

Mrs.  Bradshaw  was  not  entirely  satisfied  with  her 
answer,  but  she  felt  that,  even  had  the  Woman  some- 
thing more  to  tell  her,  it  would  not  be  told.  There  was 
about  her  something  unfathomable — something  provoca- 
tive of  speculation. 

"That  was  all  I  wanted,"  she  told  the  Woman  with 
undisguised  embarrassment. 

After  breakfast,  as  she  was  putting  on  her  hat  and 
coat  preparatory  to  going  out,  the  Woman  came  into 
the  room  again. 

"You  are  going — down  there — again  to-day?"  she 
asked  her. 

For  some  unaccountable  reason  Martha  Bradshaw  did 
not  resent  this  curiosity  on  the  other's  part,  although  she 
realised  that  had  any  of  the  other  servants  made  a  simi- 
lar enquiry  she  would  have  reprimanded  them.  Now, 
she  merely  nodded  her  head. 

"I  am  glad  you  are  going,"  the  Woman  said.  "Don't 
judge  them  quickly.  They  suffer  enough,  God  knows, 
even  if  they  are  unmolested." 

Mrs.  Bradshaw  scrutinised  the  Woman  closely,  but 
saw  only  serenity  and  tenderness  in  the  other's  gaze. 

"I  want  to  help  them,"  she  said,  a  trifle  impressed. 
She  had  never  before  spoken  of  these  matters  with  her 
servants.  "I  want  to  do  what  I  can  for  them."  Then 

125 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

some  impulse  made  her  add:  "I  sometimes  feel  that  my 
husband  is  too  severe  in  his  judgments  of  them." 

"I  am  glad  you  feel  that  way,"  the  Woman  remarked, 
as  she  opened  the  door.  "I  wish  he,  too,  might  feel 
the  same." 

All  that  day  the  Woman's  words  remained  in  Martha 
Bradshaw's  mind.  The  incident,  simple  and  genuine  as 
it  was,  had  been  too  singular  to  be  forgotten.  It  left  her 
with  a  feeling  which  she  could  not  analyse.  Now,  even 
more  than  was  her  wont,  she  was  charitable  and  for- 
giving to  those  whom  she  interviewed.  Her  desire  to 
help  all  who  needed  her  was  stronger  than  it  had  been 
formerly.  But,  because  of  this  reanimated  desire,  her 
task  seemed  more  hopeless  than  ever.  On  every  hand 
she  heard  stories  of  the  misery  being  wrought  by  the 
crusade  of  which  her  husband  was  the  instigator.  At 
many  places,  when  it  was  learned  who  she  was,  the  door 
was  shut  on  her.  But  these  acts  did  not  anger  her.  They 
only  made  her  suffer  the  more. 

Late  in  the  afternoon  she  found  herself  in  a  little 
apartment  near  Bridge  Street.  In  one  of  the  houses 
which  she  had  previously  visited,  the  woman  in  charge 
told  her  of  a  young  girl  who,  for  a  year,  had  been  a  con- 
sumptive. So  quickly  had  the  disease  taken  hold  of  her 
constitution  that  she  was  unfit  to  be  around.  The  woman 
had  been  on  the  point  of  sending  her  to  a  public  sana- 
torium when  another  woman,  whose  house  had  been 
closed  by  the  police,  offered  to  take  the  girl  and  care 
for  her.  Mrs.  Bradshaw  had  been  deeply  interested  in 
the  story.  It  seemed  unusual  that  a  keeper  of  a  house 
of  prostitution  should  have  attempted  to  save  a  girl 
from  a  charitable  institution.  She  asked  for  the  woman's 
address,  and  it  was  given  her.  When  she  arrived  at 
126 


In  a  Limousine 

the  place  she  had  been  admitted  by  a  maid.  She  was 
now  waiting  to  see  the  woman. 

The  room  in  which  she  sat  was  small  but  tastefully 
furnished.  There  were  many  books  on  the  shelves,  and 
near  her  was  a  piano,  on  the  rack  of  which  stood  music 
which  she  had  never  associated  with  that  part  of  the 
city — selections  from  the  better-class  operas,  selections 
from  Mozart,  a  transcription  of  a  Beethoven  sonata,  and 
others  of  a  like  nature.  The  furnishings  of  the  room 
were  quiet  and  unostentatious  and  breathed  forth  an  at- 
mosphere of  culture. 

As  she  sat  wondering  at  the  uncommonness  of  her 
surroundings,  the  curtains  parted  and  a  tall,  quietly- 
dressed,  refined-looking  woman  entered. 

"I  am  Miss  Dumond,"  the  newcomer  said  graciously, 
approaching  the  other  woman.  "Blanche  Dumond — per- 
haps you  have  heard  my  name." 

The  visitor  introduced  herself  also. 

"It  was  very  good  of  you  to  come,  Mrs.  Bradshaw," 
the  woman  said  politely.  "Is  there  anything  I  can  do 
to  help  you?  I  have  heard  of  your  work  here  among 
the — women,  and  I  have  read  a  little  of  it  in  the  news- 
papers. ...  I  believe  you  are  doing  the  right  thing." 

Martha  Bradshaw  was  taken  a  little  aback  at  the 
other's  quietness  and  good-breeding. 

"I  came  to  enquire  about  the  sick  girl  you  so  gen- 
erously offered  to  care  for,"  she  explained.  "I  wanted 
to  know  if  there  isn't  something  I  could  do,  or  some  help 
I  can  give." 

"You  are  very  good,"  Blanche  Dumond  replied,  seat- 
ing herself.  "But  I  have  quite  a  little  money,  and  as 
long  as  that  lasts  the  girl  will  need  no  other  help.  .  .  . 
I  am  leaving  the  city  very  soon,  and  I  shall  take  the 

127 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

girl  with  me.  The  air  in  this  quarter,  you  know,  isn't 
very  healthful." 

It  was  over  an  hour  later  that  Martha  Bradshaw  went 
out  to  her  waiting  car.  During  that  time  she  had  learned 
much.  She  had  found  in  Blanche  Dumond  a  woman  of 
education  and  broad  sympathies.  She  had  been  more 
than  interested  in  this  new  acquaintance — personally  as 
well  as  sociologically.  After  the  first  half-hour's  chat 
the  restraint  and  formality,  which  at  first  existed  between 
them,  had  drifted  out  of  their  speech  and  they  had 
talked  together  intimately  and  seriously  of  their  widely 
separated  walks  of  life. 

Blanche  Dumond  had  told  her  of  cases  in  which  help 
was  sorely  needed,  cases  which  ordinarily  would  not 
have  been  revealed  to  an  outsider.  But,  curious  as  it 
seemed  to  her  later,  Martha  Bradshaw  had  taken  a  liking 
to  the  woman,  and  the  woman  in  turn  had  appeared 
to  like  her.  Several  times  she  found  herself  comparing 
this  woman  of  the  Tenderloin  to  the  good  women  she 
herself  associated  with  daily,  and,  save  for  her  con- 
scious knowledge  of  this  one's  profession,  she  could  see 
little  difference  between  her  and  them.  Blanche  Dumond 
was  well  informed,  quiet  and  sympathetic,  gracious  in 
her  bearing,  and  possessed  of  an  unmistakable  air  of 
gentle  upbringing. 

"Are  there  many  of  your  profession  who  are  like 
you?"  Martha  Bradshaw  had  asked  her  naively. 

"We  are  not  all  so  bad  as  we  are  painted,"  the 
woman  had  answered,  smiling  faintly  at  her  joke,  just 
as  if  it  had  not  been  founded  on  a  serious  and  tragic 
fact. 

"Will  you  come  to  my  house  to  tea,"  Mrs.  Bradshaw 
had  asked  her  on  parting,  "say,  to-morrow?  I  really 
128 


In  a  Limousine 

feel  as  if  I  would  like  to  know  you  better.  There  are 
so  many  things  you  can  tell  me — things  of  which 
I  am  terribly  ignorant.  And  I  want  you  to  meet  my 
husband,  too.  I  am  sure  he  has  the  wrong  idea  about 
— some  of  you.  You  will  be  a  revelation  to  him.  And," 
she  added,  smiling  to  herself,  "if  you  will  let  me,  I  shall 
invite  one  or  two  others.  I  feel  that  you  could  do  them 
more  good  in  five  minutes  than  I  could  if  I  talked  to 
them  a  year." 

More  than  ever  she  was  convinced  now  that  there 
was  some  great  mistake  being  made  in  the  manner  in 
which  the  crusade  was  being  carried  on;  and  again  she 
thought  of  the  Woman's  words  to  her  as  she  had  left 
her  home  that  morning. 

"You  will  come  to-morrow,  won't  you  ?"  She  held  out 
her  hand  to  Blanche  Dumond. 

"I  really  believe  you  want  me,  too,"  the  other  replied 
after  a  moment.  "And  if  you  think  I  can  help  to  give 
your  husband — and  perhaps  some  others — a  little  differ- 
ent point  of  view,  there  would  be  nothing  in  the  world 
I'd  like  better." 

On  her  way  home  Martha  Bradshaw  was  inclined 
to  regret  the  hasty  impulse  which  had  led  her  to  invite 
Blanche  Dumond  to  her  house.  When  she  had  spoken 
to'the  woman  about  having  others  present  at  the  tea,  she 
had  had  in  mind  Judge  Bascomb  and  the  Reverend  Smol- 
let.  After  consideration  of  what  she  had  done  she  was 
afraid  of  the  way  her  husband  would  take  it.  Yet  the 
woman's  personality  had  appealed  to  her  strongly. 
Blanche  Dumond  had  put  into  words  the  half-formulated 
thoughts  and  opinions  which  for  weeks  had  been  gath- 
ering in  her  own  mind — thoughts  and  opinions  which  she 
believed  to  be  right,  but  which  she  had  not  dared  admit 

129 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

even  to  herself.  All  the  facts  of  her  weeks  of  inves- 
tigation had  led  her  to  just  these  conclusions,  but,  be- 
cause they  were  diametrically  opposed  to  those  of  her 
husband  and  to  the  work  to  which  he  was  giving  his 
energy  and  money,  she  had  hesitated  to  accept  them  as 
part  of  her  creed. 

That  night  she  said  nothing  to  her  husband  of  her 
afternoon's  experience,  or  her  plans  for  the  following 
day.  She  wrote  notes  to  the  Reverend  Smollet  and 
Judge  Bascomb,  asking  them  to  call,  but  giving  them 
no  hint  of  why  she  wished  to  see  them.  At  breakfast 
she  asked  Elijah  Bradshaw  to  come  home  early  from  the 
office,  explaining  that  she  was  having  some  people  to 
tea.  It  was  not  an  unusual  request,  and  he  did  not  ques- 
tion her  as  to  details. 

In  the  afternoon  he  returned  before  the  others  had 
arrived.  Martha  Bradshaw  went  to  him. 

"Elijah,"  she  said,  putting  her  arms  about  his  shoul- 
ders, "I  don't  want  you  to  be  angry  with  me  for  what 
I  have  done." 

He  looked  at  her  a  little  surprised  and  waited. 

"The  fact  is  I  have  asked  some  one  to  come  here 
this  afternoon  to  see  you — some  one  of  whom  you  will 
not  approve.  You  know  how  I  have  been  working  here 
among  the  women,  and  I  believe  I  have  found  some  one 
who  can  tell  us  things  we  have  never  guessed — a  woman 
who  can  throw  a  new  light  on  a  great  many  phases  of 
our  problem  to  which  we  have  been  blinded.  I  have 
also  asked  Dr.  Smollet  and  the  Judge  to  come.  I  want 
you  all  to  meet  her.  No  one  will  know  that  she  is 
here,  and  Elizabeth  and  Paul  will  be  out.  But  I  want 
you  to  listen  to  her.  I  want  you,  just  for  a  half  hour, 
to  hear  the  other  side  of  the  case." 
130 


In  a  Limousine 

Elijah  Bradshaw  drew  away  from  his  wife  in  a  state 
of  deep  perplexity. 

"Who  is  it  you  have  asked?"     His  voice  was  cold. 

The  woman  hesitated.  Now,  at  the  last  moment,  she 
feared  to  tell  him.  She  regretted  her  act,  and  wished 
that  she  might  retrace  her  steps.  But  she  knew  it  was 
too  late;  so  she  looked  her  husband  squarely  in  the 
eyes. 

"It's  Blanche  Dumond,"  she  said. 

The  man  was  too  astonished  to  speak.  When  finally 
he  had  gained  control  of  himself  he  demanded  in  a 
tone  which  he  had  never  used  to  his  wife  before :  "What 
do  you  mean  by  bringing  this  woman  here  to  my  house  ? 
.  .  .  Where  is  your  sense  of  decency?" 

His  manner  cut  the  woman.  A  flush  of  resentment 
arose  to  her  cheeks. 

"Why  shouldn't  I  bring  her  here?"  she  asked  hotly. 
"It  is  my  home  as  much  as  it  is  yours.  You  talk  of 
your  justice  in  all  things,  and  yet  you  are  horrified  when 
I  ask  you  to  hear,  first-hand,  the  other  side  of  this 
question.  You  are  as  ignorant  now  as  I  was  a  month 
ago.  That  was  before  I  went  down  there  and  found 
things  out  for  myself.  It  would  have  been  better  if 
you  had  done  the  same.  Perhaps,  then,  you  would  pos- 
sess more  mercy  now,  more  tenderness  and  human  kind- 
liness." 

Her  last  words  startled  him.  They  had  been  the  same 
words  that  the  Woman  he  had  taken  into  his  house 
had  used  to  him. 

"Are  you  any  better  than  I  am?"  Martha  Bradshaw 
went  on.  "If  I  am  willing  to  have  a  woman  like  this 
in  my  home  because  I  think  it  is  for  the  best,  why 
shouldn't  you?" 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

As  she  spoke  the  bell  rang.  The  Woman  passed 
through  the  room  to  go  to  the  door.  The  sight  of  her 
sent  a  pang  of  conscience  through  the  man.  Had  he 
himself  not  brought  a  woman  of  the  streets  into  his 
home  ?  And  had  he  not  lied  to  his  wife  about  it  ?  Now 
when  she,  out  of  the  bigness  of  her  heart  and  her  desire 
for  justice,  had  invited  another  woman  of  the  same  kind 
for  a  brief  visit,  what  self -justification  did  he  have  for 
resenting  his  wife's  act? 

"I  understand  why  you  brought  her  here,"  he  said,  in 
a  modified  tone,  "and  I'll  see  her." 

The  Reverend  Smollet  entered.  Shortly  after  the 
Judge  came,  beaming  and  jovial. 

They  had  chatted  but  a  moment  when  there  was  a 
sound  of  a  machine  outside.  In  a  moment  the  bell  rang 
again.  The  Woman  went  to  the  door  and  opened  it. 
When  she  saw  Blanche  Dumond  she  stepped  back  in- 
voluntarily, and  her  free  hand  went  to  her  breast.  The 
visitor,  however,  looked  at  her  without  a  word,  although 
when  she  entered  she  smiled  enigmatically. 

The  Woman  took  the  card  and  brought  it  to  Martha 
Bradshaw,  who  excused  herself  and  greeted  Blanche 
Dumond  at  the  doorway. 

"Gentlemen,"  she  said,  as  she  re-entered  the  room, 
"I  want  to  introduce  some  one  who  I  dare  say  has  a 
vital  interest  in  your  campaign."  She  approached  her 
husband.  "This  is  Miss  Blanche  Dumond,"  she  an- 
nounced. 

Bradshaw  looked  at  the  visitor  curiously,  and  said 
stiffly :  "How  do  you  do." 

Mrs.  Bradshaw  then  turned  to  the  Judge  and  the  Rev- 
erend Smollet:  "Gentlemen,  I  am  sure  you  have  heard 
of  Miss  Blanche  Dumond." 
132 


In  a  Limousine 

She  stepped  to  the  woman's  side.  "This  is  the  Rev- 
erend Smollet,  the  pastor  of  our  church  and  one  of 
the  leaders  in  the  campaign.  .  .  .  And  this  is  Judge 
Bascomb,  who  is  also  interested  in  Mr.  Gleason's  cru- 
sade." 

Smollet  was  shocked  and  did  not  acknowledge  the 
introduction.  The  Judge,  however,  bowed,  despite  his 
embarrassment. 

"I  am  pleased  to  know  you,  Madam — that  is,  Miss  Du- 
mond,"  he  said,  with  an  attempt  at  gallantry. 

The  newcomer  smiled  pleasantly. 

"I  have  heard  much  of  both  of  you  gentlemen," 
she  said  with  perfect  composure,  as  she  seated 
herself. 

"Miss  Dumond  has  called  in  response  to  my  invita- 
tion," explained  Mrs..  Bradshaw. 

Smollet,  who  had  been  standing  during  the  introduc- 
tion, now  drew  his  chair  back  a  little  from  the  circle, 
and  sat  down. 

"She  returns  your  call,  I  suppose,"  he  said,  and,  de- 
spite his  effort  to  be  natural,  a  touch  of  irony  crept  into 
his  words. 

Miss  Dumond  looked  at  him  with  suave  amusement. 
"Precisely,  Dr.  Smollet." 

The  minister  cleared  his  throat. 

"I  had  thought,"  he  said,  "that  you  had  left  the 
city." 

"And  no  doubt  you  had  hoped  so,  as  well,"  the  woman 
returned  lightly.  "But  certain  duties  have  kept  me 
here.  I  shall  leave  very  soon,  however."  She  arched 
her  eyebrows.  "In  the  light  of  recent  events  I  think 
it  better,  don't  you  ?" 

Smollet  struggled  hard  to  regain  his  self-composure. 

133 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

"Undoubtedly  you  are  acting  wisely,"  he  answered 
perfunctorily. 

The  Judge  had  been  inspecting  her  closely.  His  eyes 
twinkled. 

"And  may  I  be  so  bold  as  to  enquire,"  he  put  in  in- 
gratiatingly, "where  you  propose  locating?" 

Mrs.  Bradshaw  regarded  him  with  undisguised  dis- 
pleasure. It  had  been  her  first  inkling  of  the  Judge's 
character.  She  had  always  taken  him  at  her  husband's 
valuation  and  had  accepted  his  sincerity  in  the  movement 
as  a  matter  of  fact.  She  glanced  quickly  at  Elijah  Brad- 
shaw, but  he  was  looking  away. 

"Most  certainly,  Judge,"  came  the  pleasant,  quiet  voice 
of  Miss  Dumond.  "I  have  just  bought  a  very  attractive 
country  place  near  Sedgwick,  only  a  few  miles  west  of 
the  city.  I  shall  raise  lots  of  chickens,  and  serve  dinner 
to  automobile  parties." 

There  was  something  in  her  words  that  made  the 
Judge  chuckle. 

"I  see,"  he  commented.  "A  roadhouse,  they  call 
it,  don't  they?" 

She  smiled  again.  "I  see  you  understand,  Judge. 
May  I  count  on  your  patronage?" 

Bascomb  was  now  embarrassed. 

"Why,  you  see,"  he  stuttered,  "I  hardly " 

"Oh,  yes,  I  see  perfectly,"  the  woman  responded, 
dropping  her  eyes. 

Smollet,  conscious  of  his  friend's  predicament,  said 
stiffly:  "I  trust  that  you  are  glad  to  get  into  other 
fields — that  is,  out  of  your  old  environment." 

Blanche  Dumond  had  dropped  her  bantering  style 
now,  and  said  seriously:  "Yes.  Personally,  I  am  glad; 
though,  of  course,  I  can't  speak  for  the  others.  And, 
134 


In  a  Limousine 

personally,  I  hope  that  you  gentlemen  are  acting  wisely, 
although  I  4iave  told  Mrs.  Bradshaw  I  have  my  serious 
doubts." 

For  Smollet  the  ice  was  broken.  He  felt  more  secure 
in  the  present  situation.  He  resented  the  woman's  com- 
ments and  remarked  coldly:  "It  is  because  women  like 
you  feel  that  we  are  wrong  that  makes  us  so  certain  that 
we  are  right." 

But  Blanche  Dumond  refused  to  take  offence  at  his 
words.  She  merely  smiled  winningly  and  replied: 
"That's  really  ungallant,  Dr.  Smollet.  You  at  least 
should  be  generous  enough  to  believe  that  my  doubts 
are  based  upon  considerations  other  than  my  own  pri- 
vate interests." 

Elijah  Bradshaw  now  took  part  in  the  conversation. 

"These  other  considerations — may  I  ask  what  they 
are?"  The  woman's  personality  interested  him. 

Blanche  Dumond  turned  to  him  quickly. 

"The  facts  of  thousands  of  years  of  experimenting 
in  just  this  sort  of  thing,  Mr.  Bradshaw,"  she  said  ear- 
nestly and  with  conviction ;  "experimenting  in  ways  and 
means  to  do  away  with  the  so-called  social  evil.  You 
surely  realise  that  in  the  older  civilisations — of  Greece 
and  Rome,  for  instance — the  courtesans  were  accepted 
as  a  prominent  factor  in  the  social  organisation.  To 
serve  in  the  Temple  of  Venus  was  in  those  days  an 
exalted  calling.  Dr.  Smollet  knows  well  that  the  Bible 
is  filled  with  stories  of  concubinage,  illicit  loves  and 
crimes  of  lust;  and  coming  down  to  later  days,  I  find 
in  the  history  of  New  England  that  our  virgin  country 
was  over-crowded  with  prostitutes  as  far  back  as  1630. 
...  It  looks  as  if  some  of  the  sly  old  Puritans  had 
smuggled  some  of  their  English  cousins  over  in  the 

135 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

Mayflower.  .  .  .  Oh,  I've  been  reading  a  lot  on  this  sub- 
ject lately." 

Bradsjiaw  leaned  forward.  He  had  forgot^n  his 
resentment  at  his  wife's  having  brought  the  woman 
into  the  house.  He  found  himself  listening  to  her  words 
with  much  interest.  She  was  so  different  from  what 
he  had  expected.  Even  her  point  of  view  was  differ- 
ent. He  had  thought  that  she  would  defend  the  city's 
prostitutes  on  sentimental  grounds,  and  would  attempt 
to  make  an  appeal  to  his  sympathies. 

"And  what  is  your  conclusion,  Miss  Dumond?"  he 
asked  her,  as  he  might  have  spoken  to  one  of  the  Di- 
rectors of  his  corporation. 

The  woman  drew  her  chair  around,  ignoring  the  others 
present. 

"My  conclusion  is,"  she  said  firmly,  "that,  if  it  were 
possible  to  stop  prostitution,  it  would  have  been  stopped 
long  ago;  and  in  my  humble  opinion  it  can  never  be 
stopped  until  we  change  human  nature.  And,"  she 
added,  "I  hardly  think  we  can  do  that." 

"No,  hardly;  not  all  at  once,"  Bradshaw  agreed. 

"And  so,"  she  continued,  "if  you  will  grant  that  the 
elemental  things  in  human  nature  can  not  be  changed  to 
any  great  extent,  is  it  not  logical  to  conclude  that  it 
is  impossible  to  stamp  out  the  sins  which  arise  from 
those  natural  impulses — which  go  deep  into  the  very 
springs  of  all  human  causes?  These  points  admitted, 
the  only  thing  left  to  decide  is  whether  it  is  better  for 
a  city  to  set  apart  a  district  where  all  women  who  elect  to 
lead  this  historic  calling  must  reside,  or  do  as  you  are 
now  doing,  wipe  out  such  a  district  and  drive  its 
residents  to  al  lother  parts  of  the  city.  .  .  .  I'm  on 
one  side  of  the  question,  Mr.  Bradshaw,  and  you  on 
136 


In  a  Limousine 

the  other."    She  arose.    "So  there  is  no  more  to  be  said." 

Bradshaw  did  not  reply.    He  was  thinking  deeply. 

Smollet,  taking  advantage  of  the  silence,  asked  with 
severity:  "And  have  you  no  sense  of  shame  for  the 
part  that  you  have  played — no  desire  to  lead  a  good 
life?" 

Blanche  Dumond  became  whimsical  again,  and  smiled 
ingratiatingly. 

''Possibly,"  she  said,  shrugging  her  shoulders.  "But 
I'm  like  many  of  your  parishioners — always  putting  it 
off  until  to-morrow." 

Smollet  was  angered.  He  felt  that  the  woman  was 
in  some  way  getting  the  better  of  him.  The  evenness  of 
her  temper  infuriated  him. 

"And  the  stigma  of  it!"  he  exclaimed  sharply,  rising 
and  facing  her.  "I  should  think  you  would  blush  to 
be  abroad  in  the  daylight." 

Martha  Bradshaw  also  arose.  Her  face  was  troubled, 
and  she  looked  at  the  minister  reprovingly.  She  would 
have  said  something  had  not  the  woman  replied  quickly : 

"Blush!  Indeed,  I  am  glad  not  to  have  forgotten 
how.  I  am  blushing  for  you  now,  Dr.  Smollet,  to  think 
that  you  have  so  far  forgotten  your  gallantry." 

Smollet  was  confused,  and  flared  up  hotly.  "You 
may  spare  your  blushes  if  they  are  for  me,"  he 
told  her  with  an  attempt  at  withering  scorn.  "I 
have  no  gallantries  for  women  of  your  profes- 
sion." 

Blanche  Dumond  smiled  again,  and  replied  banter- 
ingly:  "You  may  insult  me,  Dr.  Smollet,  but  do  not 
slander  my  profession.  You  know,  it  is  the  oldest  in 
the  world;  it's  older  than  history  itself.  It's. as  old  as 
mythology.  Venus,  the  Aphrodite  of  the  Greeks,  is 

137 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

its  Goddess ;  and  temples  have  been  raised  to  her  in 
all  ages.  History  is  filled  with  the  names  of*her  illus- 
trious devotees.'* 

Smollet  sat  down  and  sniffed  contemptuously. 

"And  among  her  devotees,"  went  on  the  other,  "are 
names  that  have  changed  the  map  of  the  world — women's 
names,  disciples  of  Aphrodite." 

The  Judge  was  heartily  enjoying  Smollet's  anger,  and 
sought  to  feed  fuel  to  the  flames. 

"What  names,  Miss  Dumond  ?"  he  asked  slyly. 

Still  keeping  her  eyes  on  the  Reverend  Smollet,  the 
woman  answered :  "The  old  friend  of  our  school  days, 
Helen  of  Troy,  is  one." 

The  minister  now  saw  an  opening,  and  said  senten- 
tiously,  waving  his  arm :  "A  myth,  like  your  Aphrodite." 

Blanche  Dumond  was  not  shaken.  "Well,  perhaps," 
she  said  seriously.  "But  Cleopatra  was  real,  wasn't 
she  ?"  She  smiled  at  Bradshaw.  "At  least  Marc  Antony 
found  her  so." 

Smollet  did  not  reply,  and  the  woman  held  up  her 
neatly  gloved  hand  and  began  counting  off  the  names 
on  her  fingers  as  she  spoke  them. 

"And  there  was  Sappho,  one  of  the  world's  greatest 
poets,  and  Phryne,  the  model  of  Praxiteles,  and  Aspasia, 
the  classic  mistress  of  Pericles,  and  Lais,  the  official 
mistress  of  the  Eleusinian  Mysteries,  and  the  Pompa- 
dour, and  Madame  du  Barry,  and  Catherine  of  Russia, 
and  Ninon  de  L'Enclos,  and  Diana  de  Poitiers, — women 
who  have  made  and  shaken  empires.  And  then  there 
was  Lola  Montez,  and  Nell  Gwynne,  the  pet  of 
princes.  .  .  ." 

"A  brilliant  constellation,"   agreed   Smollet   irritably. 
"But  haven't  you  forgotten  Mary  Goode?" 
138 


In  a  Limousine 

"I  was  just  coming  to  her  when  you  interrupted," 
Blanche  Dumond  answered,  smiling  sweetly. 

Smollet  made  a  deprecatory  gesture  and  turned  away, 
as  if  tired  of  the  argument. 

On  seeing  this  the  Judge  remarked  coolly :  "Permit  me 
to  say,  madam,  that,  while  I  cannot  agree  with  you,  I 
must  observe  that  you  are  a  woman  of — considerable 
cultivation." 

"Thank  you  so  much,"  she  replied  with  exaggerated 
gratitude.  "I  have  had  many  advantages.  My  story 
might  interest  you,  Judge,  but  it  is  too  long  to  tell 
to-day.  When  you  come  to  my  farm,  perhaps " 

The  Judge  lifted  his  hand  protestingly. 

"Oh,  don't  be  afraid,"  the  woman  hastened  to  as- 
sure him.  "I  have  entertained  in  my  home  men  occupy- 
ing the  highest  social  positions."  She  was  smiling  again. 

Then,  before  the  Judge  could  answer,  she  turned  to 
Mrs.  Bradshaw.  "Thank  you  so  much  for  allowing  me 
to  come." 

The  other  woman  took  her  hand  warmly.  "We  shall 
all  be  interested  to  hear  how  you  get  on  in  your — new 
field." 

"I  forgot  to  tell  you  gentlemen,"  she  said,  turning 
to  the  others,  "that  Miss  Dumond  has  stayed  in  the 
city  so  that  she  might  help  a  poor  girl  who  has  con- 
sumption." 

The  Reverend  Smollet  was  not  impressed. 

"There  are  plenty  of  institutions  that  would  have 
taken  care  of  the  girl,"  he  informed  them  curtly. 

"No  doubt,"  Blanche  Dumond  answered.  "But  when 
a  girl  enters  such  an  institution  it  is  with  a  label  at- 
tached to  her.  She  is  treated  like  an  outcast,  and  -I 
have  had  more  than  one  girl  say  to  me  that  she  couldn't 

139 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

stand  to  pass  under  that  legend:  'Home  for  Fallen 
Women.'  Do  you  think  a  girl  could  ever  recover  her 
self-respect  after  that  stigma?"  Then  her  manner 
quickly  changed.  "But  I  really  must  be  going.  I  thank 
you  all  so  much  for  letting  me  talk." 

She  bowed  graciously  to  Elijah  Bradshaw,  and  went 
to  the  door,  Mrs.  Bradshaw  following  her. 

She  was  about  to  go  out  when  she  turned. 

"I  have  my  car  in  front,"  she  said,  with  a  pleasant 
intonation,  "if  either  of  you  gentlemen  wish  to  go  over 
town." 

Smollet  drew  himself  up,  and  answered  tartly :  "Thank 
you,  we  have  an  appointment." 

"Oh,  don't  be  afraid,"  she  laughed.  "It's  a  closed 
car." 

But  when  neither  of  them  made  a  sign,  she  turned 
to  Martha  Bradshaw  and  bade  her  good-bye. 

When  she  had  gone  Mrs.  Bradshaw  did  not  return 
to  the  men,  but  went  upstairs  to  her  own  room. 

"So  that's  the  notorious  Blanche  Dumond,"  Brad- 
shaw remarked,  obviously  impressed.  "I've  been  sit- 
ting here  trying  to  figure  her  out." 

The  Judge  was  again  on  his  dignity. 

"What  do  you  make  of  her,  Bradshaw?"  he  asked. 
"Rather  unusual  woman,  I  should  say." 

The  other  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  said  slowly : 
"She  upsets  a  lot  of  my  ideas.  She's  so  different  from 
what  I  had  imagined." 

Smollet  looked  at  him  with  marked  astonishment. 

"That's  what  makes  women  of  her  type  so  dan- 
gerous," he  remarked.  "She  wears  a  veneer  of  culture 

and  gentility,   and  beneath   it  is "     He  floundered 

about  for  a  word. 
140 


In  a  Limousine 

Bradshaw  arose  and  caught  him  up  rather  sharply: 
"Is  what?" 

Then  he  walked  to  the  window,  his  hands  behind  him. 
"I  imagine  that,  after  all,  she  is  a  good  deal  like 
other  women.  No  doubt  she  has  her  own  ideas  of 
honesty." 

He  thought  of  the  Woman  in  the  house. 

"If  we  knew  more  about  her  we  could,  perhaps,  judge 
her  better." 


141 


CHAPTER  IX 

GREY  THREADS   OF  A   SPIDER-WEB 

WHEN  Bellamy  went  to  his  office  at  the  Star  the 
next  morning,  he  found  a  note  on  his  desk  saying 
that  Duncan  Harrison  wished  to  see  him  immediately. 
The  summons  was  out  of  the  ordinary,  and  Bellamy 
sensed  trouble  at  once. 

When  he  entered  the  manager's  private  office  that 
man  wore  a  troubled  look  and  sat  toying  with  his  pencil 
— an  unusual  state  of  affairs,  for  Harrison  was  a  hard 
worker,  and  none  of  his  staff  had  ever  found  him  idle. 

"Sit  down,  Bellamy,"  he  said,  without  looking  up. 
"Things  are  in  a  mess,  and  there's  hell  to  pay.  I  don't 
know  just  what  to  do,  and  I  want  you  to  undertake 
a  delicate,  diplomatic  job  for  me."  He  hesitated,  not 
knowing  just  how  to  proceed. 

"Anything  the  matter  with  the  paper,  sir  ?"  the  younger 
man  asked  anxiously. 

"No,  not  the  paper.  I  almost  wish  it  was."  Harri- 
son dropped  his  pencil,  and  looked  around  squarely. 

"The  truth  is,"  he  announced,  "young  Bradshaw  is  an 
embezzler." 

Bellamy  was  too  startled  to  speak. 

"Paul  Bradshaw  a  thief!"  he  exclaimed  incredulously. 
"I  can't  believe  it,  Mr.  Harrison.  There  is  some  mis- 
take." 

"No,  my  boy,  there  is  no  mistake,"  the  other  man  as- 
142 


Grey  Threads  of  a  Spider- Web 

sured  hjm.  "At  first  I  was  inclined  to  feel  as  you 
do,  and  I  went  down  personally  to  verify  it.  ...  No; 
there  is  no  mistake,"  he  repeated.  "It's  the  truth." 

Bellamy  now  thought  of  the  girl  he  loved  and  of 
the  suffering  this  thing  would  bring  her.  His  first  im- 
pulse was  to  find  ways  and  means  of  keeping  it  from 
her. 

"Who  knows  about  this?"  he  asked,  with  deep  con- 
cern. 

"As  yet,"  Harrison  replied,  "nobody  knows  except 
the  bank  directors,  the  city  editor  and  myself.  Not  even 
Bradshaw's  father  knows  it." 

"Then  it  can  be  hushed  up  ?"  Bellamy  asked  eagerly. 

The  other  man  shook  his  head  dubiously.  "I  don't 
know.  That's  the  worst  of  it.  You  know  old  Bradshaw. 
When  he  finds  out,  he  will  go  up  in  the  air.  There 
is  no  telling  what  he  will  do.  His  code  is  so  strict 
that  he  may  demand  that  the  thing  be  given  publicity 
in  order  to  punish  his  son." 

"I  know  what  you  mean,"  Bellamy  returned.  "He's 
not  a  man  who  would  spare  himself  if  he  thought,  by 
doing  so,  it  would  be  wrong.  He's  an  old  walrus — 
you  can  almost  admire  him  for  it."  Then  he  said,  as  if 
to  himself :  "Poor  Bess !" 

"Well,"  remarked  the  other,  "I  am  not  going  to  run 
the  story  until  I  find  out  what  Bradshaw's  attitude  is 
in  regard  to  the  matter.  .  .  .  Now,  what  I  want  you 
to  do,  Bellamy,  is  to  go  and  break  the  news  to  him. 
Tell  him  the  circumstances,  and  see  what  he  says.  .  .  . 
Gad!  it  will  put  a  crimp  in  this  campaign  if  the  mat- 
ter ever  gets  out!" 

"What  are  the  circumstances?"  Bellamy  asked. 

"Simple  enough,"  Harrison  told  him.  "Perkins,  the 

143 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

inspector,  came  in  suddenly  yesterday  after  banking 
hours  and  went  over  the  books.  He  was  going  to  Cali- 
fornia for  a  trip  and  didn't  know  when  he  would  get 
back,  so  he  thought  he'd  check  things  up  before  he  went. 
Well,  it  didn't  take  him  long  to  find  that  young  Brad- 
shaw  was  considerably  short.  The  boy  had  not  tried 
to  doctor  his  books.  It  looked  as  if  he  had  taken  the 
money  in  a  hurry  and  had  intended  to  fix  up  the  short- 
age when  he  got  a  chance.  Perkins  telephoned  Quincy, 
the  President,  as  soon  as  he  found  the  deficiency;  and 
last  night  Quincy  got  in  touch  with  me,  just  as  I  imag- 
ine he  did  with  the  rest  of  the  Directors.  He  was 
furious  about  it,  especially  as  there  seemed  to  be  no 
reason  why  young  Bradshaw  should  have  dipped  into 
the  bank's  funds,  and  had  got  the  job  on  his  father's 
pull.  He  was  going  up  to  old  Bradshaw  at  once,  but 
I  held  him  off  and  asked  him  to  let  me  see  about  it 
this  morning.  He  told  me  he'd  keep  the  thing  quiet 
until  he  heard  from  me.  As  a  result,  the  other  papers 
haven't  got  it  yet.  As  I  told  you,  I  was  a  little  sceptical 
on  the  matter,  anyway;  so  this  morning  early  I  went 
down  to  the  bank.  The  boy  had  done  a  crude  job. 
There  was  no  chance  of  there  being  any  doubt  of  his 
guilt.  He  simply  took  the  money,  stuffed  a  lot  of 
one-dollar  bills  into  hundred-dollar  holders,  and  entered 
it  up  as  correct.  There  is  no  telling  exactly  when  it 
happened — probably  yesterday  or  the  day  before.  .  .  . 
What  do  you  make  of  it,  Bellamy  ?" 

The  young  man  shook  his  head. 

"It  gets  me,"   he  answered.     "Paul   always   seemed 
happy.    His  father  gave  him  everything  he  wanted,  and 
God  knows  his  old  man  has  enough  money.     Paul  al- 
ways struck  me  as  being  straight.    I  can't  dope  it  out." 
144 


Grey  Threads  of  a  Spider- Web 

"Well,  anyway  it's  gone,  and  we've  got  to  take  some 
kind  of  action  on  it  right  away,"  Harrison  responded 
gravely.  "Now,  here's  what  you  are  to  do,  Bellamy. 
You're  to  go  out  to  Bradshaw's  right  away,  break  the 
news  to  him,  and  see  what  he  wants  done  about  it. 
If  he  is  willing  to  square  the  thing  up  with  the  bank,  they 
won't  prosecute.  Bradshaw's  got  too  much  influence  and 
is  one  of  the  bank's  biggest  depositors.  As  for  the 
paper,  of  course  we'll  say  nothing  about  it  unless  it 
leaks  out  in  some  other  channel — which  I  don't  think 
it  will.  If  you  let  me  know  soon  enough,  I'll  start  the 
wheels  going  to  keep  it  quiet." 

Bellamy  arose.  "I'll  go  immediately — only,  for  God's 
sake,  do  what  you  can  to  hush  it  up." 

Duncan  Harrison  looked  up  at  him  with  a  sardonic 
smile. 

"I  see  that  you,  too,  are  willing  to  suppress  a  few 
little  things.  Remember  your  curtain  lecture  to  me  about 
strict  honesty  in  the  Star?" 

Bellamy  was  embarrassed. 

"This  is  a  little  difficult  matter,"  he  said.  "You  see, 
Mr.  Harrison,  I  am  hoping  to  marry  Elizabeth  Brad- 
shaw  one  of  these  days,  and  she'd  be  the  one  that 
would  suffer  if  this  got  out.  She's  only  a  kid,  and  it 
would  break  her  heart  to  think  her  brother  was  a  crook." 

"Well,  I  hope  you  get  her,  Bellamy,"  the  older  man 
said,  in  a  fatherly  tone.  "Anyway,  you  see,  circum- 
stances alter  cases.  Now,  you  have  your  excuse  for 
suppressing  the  truth  in  the  paper,  and  I  have  my  ex- 
cuse. You're  young,  and  you  think  love  is  the  impor- 
tant thing — that's  your  standard.  I'm  older,  and  I  have 
gotten  over  being  foolish.  I  suppress  things  because 
of  the  money  side — that's  my  standard." 

145 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

"Well,  by  your  own  confession,"  the  young  man  pro- 
tested, "your  point  of  view  is  selfish,  and  mine  isn't." 

"All  points  of  view  are  selfish,  my  boy,"  Harrison 
returned  cynically,  drawing  a  pile  of  proofs  in  front 
of  him.  "However,  we  won't  argue  it.  Hurry  up  to 
Bradshaw  now,  and  come  back  here  to  the  office  as 
soon  as  you  can.  This  is  ticklish  business." 

"Are  you  sure  Paul  doesn't  suspect  anything?"  Bel- 
lamy asked. 

"Not  a  thing.     Perkins  was  not  due  for  two  weeks." 

Bellamy  hurried  out  into  the  street  with  a  heavy 
heart.  All  the  way  out  to  the  Bradshaw  home  he  specu- 
lated as  to  what  excuse  Paul  could  have  had  in  appropri- 
ating the  bank's  funds.  He  thought  back  over  his  friend- 
ship with  the  young  man,  but  could  find  in  it  nothing 
which  would  give  him  the  slightest  hint  as  to  the  cause 
of  his  defalcation.  Had  the  information  come  from 
any  other  man  save  Duncan  Harrison,  he  would  have 
doubted  its  authenticity,  but  he  knew  how  careful  and 
exact  that  man  was.  Harrison  would  have  left  no 
loophole  for  a  possible  error  before  sending  him  on 
his  present  disagreeable  mission. 

What  worried  him  most  was  Elijah  Bradshaw's  char- 
acter. Bellamy  knew  him  to  be  hard  and  obdurate, 
fearless  and  unforgiving,  ready  to  sacrifice  even  those 
whom  he  loved  to  a  principle.  If  Bradshaw  demanded 
an  exposure  of  the  whole  thing,  it  would  mean  sorrow 
and  pain  for  his  daughter;  and  this  possibility  cut 
Bellamy  more  deeply  than  any  other  phase  of  the 
situation. 

As  he  stepped  up  to  the  front  door  he  met  Elijah 
Bradshaw  on  the  point  of  leaving. 

"I  have  come  to  you  on  a  matter  of  vital  importance, 
146 


Grey  Threads  of  a  Spider- Web 

Mr.  Bradshaw,"  he  said,  without  even  greeting  the  older 
man.  "You  can't  go  just  yet;  I  must  talk  with  you 
alone." 

"What's  the  trouble,  Bellamy?  Ride  with  me  down- 
town, and  we  will  discuss  it." 

"That  wouldn't  do,"  the  other  persisted. 

"It  will  have  to  do,"  the  man  returned  curtly. 

Bellamy  took  him  by  the  arm.  "Mr.  Bradshaw,  you 
will  be  sorry  if  you  don't  listen  to  me  at  once."  Some- 
thing in  his  tone  made  the  other  hesitate. 

"Well,  Bellamy,"  he  said,  "if  you  are  going  to  scare 
me  into  submission,  I  suppose  I'll  have  to  do  what  you 
ask." 

He  turned  and  re-entered  the  house. 

"Now,  what  is  it?"  he  demanded,  with  considerable 
annoyance,  when  they  were  alone  in  the  library. 

"I  am  here  on  a  tough  job,"  the  young  man  began 
earnestly.  "I'd  rather  take  a  licking  than  tell  you.  But 
I'm  here  from  the  paper — it's  about  Paul." 

Bradshaw  showed  surprise.  "Paul?  What  about 
him?" 

"Well,  it's  the  bank.  An  investigation  was  held  late 
yesterday  afternoon." 

The  other  man  could  not  understand  Bellamy's  deep 
concern.  To  suspect  his  son  was  the  farthest  thing  from 
his  thoughts. 

"Investigation  about  what?"  he  asked.  "What  are 
you  driving  at?  Why  do  you  come  in  here  and  drag 
me  back  from  my  work  to  talk  about  bank  transactions  ? 
Why  don't  you  talk  to  Paul?  He  tends  to  that  end 
of  it." 

Bellamy  sighed  heavily.  The  interview  was  more  diffi- 
cult than  he  had  imagined. 

147 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

"I  know  all  that,  Mr.  Bradshaw,"  he  said,  after  a  mo- 
ment. "But  it  is  about  Paul  that  I  have  got  to  tell 
you, — there  has  been  a  shortage." 

Still  Bradshaw  did  not  understand.  "Well,  what  of  it  ? 
Paul's  merely  the  assistant  cashier.  He  is  not  morally 
responsible  for  any  irregularity  of  that  kind.  If  some 
one  is  short  or  has  stolen  from  the  bank,  there  is  no 
occasion  for  any  alarm.  The  bonding  company  will 
make  that  good.  They  certainly  can  not  attach  any  re- 
sponsibility to  my  son.  They  will  have  to  go  higher 
up." 

Bellamy  clinched  his  teeth  resolutely.  He  was  wast- 
ing time.  He  turned  to  Bradshaw  resolutely. 

"It  is  not  a  question  of  responsibility,"  he  said  firmly. 
"It  is  a  question  of  guilt.  Don't  you  see  I  have  been 
trying  to  break  it  to  you  as  gently  as  I  can?  Paul  is 
charged  with  the  shortage!  Everything  is  being  held 
up  until  your  decision  is  heard." 

The  older  man's  face  went  pale.  He  sat  down  in  his 
chair  heavily,  as  if  he  had  been  struck  a  violent  blow. 

"Paul  charged  with  it!"  His  words  were  scarcely 
audible. 

There  was  a  moment's  silence. 

"Come,  young  man !"  he  said,  but  his  voice  was  with- 
out conviction.  "This  is  too  serious  a  thing  to  joke 
about." 

Bellamy  went  over  to  the  stricken  man. 

"Can't  you  see  I'm  not  joking?"  he  asked  sorrow- 
fully. "It  is  because  it  is  so  serious  that  I  have  come 
to  you.  We  must  do  something." 

Bradshaw  narrowed  his  eyes,  and  thought  a  mo- 
ment. 

"Wait!"  he  exclaimed,  and  there  was  a  note  of  hope 
148 


Grey  Threads  of  a  Spider- Web 

in    his    tone.      "Who    told    you    this?     Who    says    my 
boy " 

"Perkins,"  Bellamy  cut  in.  "He  tipped  the  Directors 
off  last  night.  This  morning  at  the  office  Harrison  sent 
for  me.  He  is  one  of  the  Directors,  you  know,  and 
he  put  a  brake  on  the  whole  affair,  and  hustled  me  over 
to  you.  If  we  act  quickly,  and  in  the  right  way,  the 
whole  thing  can  be  hushed  up  without  a  whisper.  It's 
up  to  you." 

Bradshaw  had  heard  only  the  one  word,  "Perkins." 
There  was  no  doubt  now  in  his  mind  as  to  his  son's 
guilt.  Bradshaw  knew  Perkins  well.  He  was  a  care- 
ful, conscientious  and  honest  man. 

"So  Perkins  examined  the  books,  did  he?"  His  tone 
was  hopeless  and  resigned. 

He  looked  down  at  the  floor,  and  all  the  strength 
seemed  to  have  departed  from  his  body.  He  thought 
of  the  letter  which  the  girl,  Mabel  Mordaunt,  had  sent 
him.  It  was  still  in  his  pocket.  The  words  of  her 
curse  were  written  indelibly  on  his  mind ;  and  now 
they  flashed  out  in  his  brain  in  symbols  of  fire.  He 
thought  also  of  his  son's  disobedient  conduct  for  the 
past  few  days,  of  his  late  hours,  and  of  his  refusal 
to  stay  at  home. 

For  a  moment  his  emotions  were  many  and  dissimilar ; 
but  as  he  sat,  letting  his  mind  go  over  the  many  recent 
events,  they  resolved  themselves  into  a  single  wave  of 
anger  toward  his  son.  Slowly  his  relaxed  muscles  be- 
came hard.  His  hands  clinched,  and  he  arose  to  his 
full  stature,  looking  straight  ahead  of  him  with  fierce 
determination. 

"If  it's  true,"  he  said  slowly  and  deliberately,  "it 
shan't  be  hushed  up.  Hushing  it  up  won't  help  here." 

149 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

He  struck  himself  on  the  heart. 

Bellamy  feared  his  decision,  and  came  to  him  quickly. 

"But  it  isn't  as  bad  as  you  think.  It's  only  a  small 
amount,"  he  said,  attempting  to  console  the  other. 

"The  amount  doesn't  matter,"  Bradshaw  flashed  back. 
"You  say  my  son's  a  thief.  That's  the  thing  that  stabs 
me  like  a  knife.  And  if  he  is  a  thief,  he  shall  pay  for 
it.  I  won't  condone  his  sin." 

As  he  spoke,  the  Woman  entered  from  the  hallway, 
carrying  a  fresh  bouquet  of  flowers.  She  walked  si- 
lently over  to  the  desk,  and  began  arranging  them  in 
a  vase. 

The  two  men  had  not  observed  her,  but  she  stood  for 
a  moment,  watching  them  closely. 

"You  wouldn't  let  Paul  go  to  jail,"  Bellamy  protested. 

"I'd  send  him  to  jail  myself,"  Bradshaw  replied  un- 
yieldingly. "Even  though  he's  my  son,  I  shall  have  no 
mercy.  Because  he  is  my  son  is  no  reason  he  should 
go  free.  I  have  always  taken  my  medicine.  He  must 
take  his." 

A  look  of  infinite  grief  came  into  the  Woman's  face. 
She  clasped  her  hands  on  her  breast,  as  if  fighting  with 
a  secret  pain.  Impulsively  she  stepped  toward  Brad- 
shaw, and  put  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"Your  wife,"  she  reminded  him,  meeting  the  man's 
eyes. 

Bradshaw  started  like  a  man  frightened  by  some 
supernatural  apparition.  His  jaw  dropped,  and  his  lips 
trembled. 

"Remember!"  the  Woman  went  on  in  a  voice  which 
Bellamy  could  not  hear.  "The  sins  of  the  fathers !" 

Then  she  turned  and  walked  to  the  window,  where 
she  stood  waiting  expectantly. 


Grey  Threads  of  a  Spider- Web 

Bradshaw  followed  her  with  his  gaze,  and  for  a  min- 
ute he  stood  transfixed. 

"If  I  save  him,"  he  said  aloud,  as  if  in  conclusion 
to  some  decision  which  had  taken  place  in  his  mind, 
"it  will  be  for  his  mother's  sake." 

His  manner  had  changed.  His  severity  had  left  him; 
and  he  crossed  the  room  slowly  and  looked  down  into 
the  open  fire. 

"What  can  he  have  done  with  the  money?"  he  asked, 
wonderingly.  "I  have  never  allowed  him  to  want  for 
anything.  He  has  had  everything  he  asked  for — every- 
thing." 

He  thought  a  moment. 

"Gambling!"  he  exclaimed  suddenly.  "The  stock  mar- 
ket— or  worse.  That's  what's  done  it!  ...  But  why 
didn't  he  come  to  me?" 

"My  suggestion  is,"  Bellamy  said,  "that  you  see  Paul 
right  away.  Then  I  can  go  back  to  Harrison  before 
it  goes  any  further.  He'll  quash  it  with  the  bank 
officials." 

Bradshaw  pulled  himself  together  and  looked  up* 
"That's  the  thing  to  do.  Moralising  won't  help  us.  You 
hurry  back  to  the  office,  my  boy,  and  I'll  'phone  you 
by  the  time  you  get  there.  Do  what  you  can." 

"You  know  I'll  do  that,  Mr.  Bradshaw,"  the  young 
man  said  as  he  went  out.  For  Elizabeth's  sake  he  was 
happy. 

Bradshaw  turned  to  the  Woman. 

"Tell  my  son  to  come  here  quickly."  He  had  already 
determined  on  a  course  of  action. 

But  the  Woman  did  not  obey  him  immediately.  In- 
stead, she  approached  him ;  and,  despite  the  grief  in  her 
eyes,  she  looked  at  the  man  fearlessly. 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

"Does  it  occur  to  you,"  she  asked,  in  an  even  voice, 
"that  your  son  might  have  stolen  this  money  for  a 
woman?  Before  you  see  him  it  might  be  well  for  you 
to  know  the  reason  for  his  guilt." 

Bradshaw  regarded  her  intently.  "What  woman  could 
he  have  stolen  for?  The  notion  is  preposterous!" 

"To  the  contrary,"  came  the  gentle  voice  of  the  other. 
"He  took  this  money  for  a  woman — a  married  woman. 
I  believe  your  son  loves  her." 

This  possibility  had  never  presented  itself  to  the  man. 
He  rebelled  at  believing  it. 

"You  don't  know  what  you  are  saying,"  he  flung  back 
angrily.  "How  dare  you  suggest  such  a  thing  to  me?" 

The  Woman  was  not  perturbed. 

"How  little  you  know  those  whom  you  judge,"  she 
told  him  with  mild  pity.  "I  myself  know  the  girl  who 
has  brought  your  son  to  this.  And  it  was  not  her  fault, 
either.  Her  name  is  Young.  Up  to  two  days  ago  she 
lived  in  a  poverty-stricken  little  flat  on  Orchard  Street. 
She  was  married  to  a  man  who  abused  her.  They  both 
worked  in  your  store.  When  she  could  bear  the  igno- 
miny and  suffering  no  longer,  she  left  him  and  tried  to 
support  herself  alone.  She  was  young  and  pretty.  Your 
son  had  noticed  her  at  her  work.  He  had  spoken  to 
her  often,  and  sometimes  he  waited  and  took  her  home 
at  night.  When  she  lost  her  position  she  was  penniless, 
and  your  son  had  no  money  with  which  to  help  her,  al- 
though he  wanted  to,  for  he  felt  sorry  for  her.  Finally 
he  stole  from  the  bank  that  he  might  save  her  from 
starvation  and  give  her  a  pleasant  home  in  which  to 
live.  That's  what  your  son  did  with  the  money.  He 
intends  to  marry  her  when  she  gets  her  divorce." 

"If  this  is  true,"  the  man  declared,  looking  through 
152 


Grey  Threads  of  a  Spider- Web 

narrowed  lids,  "he  shall  go  to  jail.    The  bank  can  prose- 
cute.    I  wash  my  hands  of  him/' 

He  took  the  Woman  roughly  by  the  arm. 

"But  how  do  I  know  you  are  telling  me  the  truth?" 
he  asked  brutally.  "It's  all  been  so  strange — your  com- 
ing here  to  this  house.  .  .  .  And  now — this.  How  could 
you  know  these  things?  .  .  .  I'll  not  believe  it;  I'll  not 
believe  it." 

The  Woman  smiled  hopelessly.  "Then  why  don't  you 
find  out  the  truth  from  him?" 

"I  will.    I'll  ask  him  at  once.    Tell  him  to  come  here." 

The  Woman  started  to  go,  but  stopped  and  looked 
back. 

"Remember  he  is  your  son,"  she  said  pleadingly.  "Re- 
member Blenheim." 

While  Bradshaw  was  waiting  for  his  son  he  tried  to 
straighten  out  the  tangled  skein  of  the  new  events  which 
had  taken  place  in  his  life.  Although,  in  a  measure,  he 
felt  guilty,  he  could  not  shake  off  his  anger  towards 
the  boy's  actions.  Some  instinct  told  him  to  forgive 
his  son.  But,  on  the  other  hand,  he  felt  the  urge  of  a 
strong  determination  to  punish  the  young  man. 

In  a  few  minutes  Paul  Bradshaw  entered,  collarless 
and  in  his  dressing  gown. 

"What's  up?"  he  asked  irritably.  "Couldn't  you  let 
me  finish  my  toilet?" 

The  older  man  attempted  to  control  his  temper.  He 
did  not  want  to  give  free  rein  to  his  feelings.  In  a 
moment  he  had  himself  partly  under  control. 

"My  boy,"  he  said,  "you  have  been  found  out." 

Paul  started  slightly,  but  recovered  himself  at  once. 

"What  do  you  mean,  'found  out'?"  he  asked,  simu- 
lating indifference. 

153 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

Bradshaw  came  close  to  him.  "The  bank — there  was 
an  investigation  yesterday  afternoon.  The  shortage 
was  discovered." 

Even  at  this  the  young  man  put  on  a  brave  front. 
"There  was  no  shortage  that  I  know  of.  What  are  you 
driving  at?" 

The  older  man  put  his  hand  on  his  son's  shoulder. 

"It's  no  use,  my  boy,"  he  said.  "Perkins  was  there 
yesterday.  He's  at  the  bank  now." 

Paul's  self-composure  left  him  at  once.  He  dropped 
into  a  chair. 

"Then  the  jig  is  up,"  he  muttered. 

"You  mean  you  are  guilty,"  Bradshaw  corrected  him. 

"I  mean  I  am  short,"  the  other  fenced  doggedly. 
"God  knows  I  meant  to  make  it  good." 

Bradshaw  looked  at  him  and  spoke  bitterly.  "You 
meant  to!  You  meant  to!  It  doesn't  matter  now  what 
you  meant  to  do." 

There  was  a  pause  in  which  the  father  regarded  criti- 
cally the  broken  figure  of  the  young  man. 

"Why  didn't  you  tell  me  before  it  came  to  this?"  he 
asked. 

"I  couldn't.  I  was  ashamed  to,"  the  other  answered, 
gulping  painfully,  without  looking  up. 

Bradshaw's  voice  changed.  "I  want  you  to  tell  me 
what  you  did  with  the  money." 

"I  spent  it — that's  all,"  came  the  feeble  answer. 

Bradshaw  watched  him  angrily.  "You  won't  srfy? 
Are  you  ashamed  to  tell  me  how  you  spent  this  money  ?" 

"Perhaps." 

"Then  I'll  tell  you,"  the  father  said.  "I  heard,  but 
I  wouldn't  believe.  You  spent  it  on  a  woman — a  mar- 
ried woman " 

154 


Grey  Threads  of  a  Spider- Web 

At  this  the  young  man  leapt  up. 

"It's  a  lie!"  he  shouted. 

"I  believe  it's  the  truth,"  Bradshaw  continued,  with- 
out changing  his  tone.  "You  spent  it  on  a  woman  in 
Orchard  Street." 

Paul  Bradshaw  saw  now  that  there  was  no  need  of 
further  dissembling.  His  fear  turned  into  defiance,  and 
he  faced  his  father  belligerently. 

"Well,  now  that  you  know  it,"  he  asked  challeng- 
ingly,  "what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it  ?" 

As  his  father  did  not  reply  immediately,  he  went  on : 
"But  it  makes  no  difference  what  you  do,  I'll  never  give 
her  up." 

At  this  sudden  change  in  front  on  the  part  of  his  son, 
Elijah  Bradshaw  lost  his  self-control.  His  instinct  to- 
ward forgiveness  left  him. 

"When  you  are  in  jail,  you  will  change  your  mind," 
he  answered  harshly. 

The  young  man  had  been  unprepared  for  this  pro- 
nouncement. He  did  not  believe  his  father  would  take 
such  heroic  measures.  His  defiance  left  him  as  quickly 
as  it  had  come.  He  saw  that  it  was  no  use  to  combat 
the  older  man.  When  he  spoke  again  his  voice  was 
broken  and  frightened. 

"You  won't  let  me  go  there,  father/'  he  begged. 
"Think  of  your  own  pride  and  position!  Besides,  you 
know  it  would  kill  my  mother." 

Elijah  Bradshaw  hesitated  and  thought  a  moment.  At 
his  son's  reference  to  Martha  Bradshaw  his  determina- 
tion once  more  broke  down.  He  felt  himself  weak- 
ening. He  thought  again  of  the  Woman  and  of  her 
words  exhorting  him  to  remember  Blenheim.  For  some 
reason,  which  he  could  not  understand,  he  knew  that 

155 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

he  would  be  unable  to  carry  out  his  resolve  to  punish 
the  boy. 

"If  I  save  you,"  he  said  slowly,  weighing  each  word, 
"it  will  be  for  your  mother's  sake.  But  you  must  prom- 
ise me,  if  I  get  you  out  of  this,  that  you  will  give  the 
girl  up." 

The  young  man  forgot  his  fear. 

"Never!"  he  cried.  "I'll  marry  Ruth  as  soon  as  sl.c 
is  free." 

"Ruth!"  exclaimed  Bradshaw.     "Is  her  name  Ruth?" 

The  young  man  was  startled  by  his  father's  voice,  and 
the  look  on  his  face. 

Before  he  could  answer  the  Woman  appeared  at  the 
door. 

"Did  you  call?"  she  asked. 

Receiving  no  answer,  she  added:  "That's  strange.  I 
thought  I  heard  some  one  call  my  name." 

"Your  name!  Is  your  name  Ruth?"  Bradshaw 
looked  at  her  as  if  her  words  had  contained  something 
sinister  and  terrifying. 

"Yes,"  said  the  Woman,  "my  name  is  Ruth." 

Bradshaw  wavered  slightly  and  dropped  into  a  chair 
as  if  stunned.  His  mind  had  gone  back  thirty  years. 
The  girl  whom  he  had  deserted  in  Montreal  had  been 
named  Ruth,  and  only  a  few  days  before  he  had  read 
that  name  at  the  end  of  her  old  love  letters  which 
he  had  brought  forth  from  their  hiding-place  the  night 
the  Woman  appeared  to  him. 

"That  is  all,"  he  said  feebly,  waving  his  hand  for 
the  servant  to  go. 

He  then  looked  at  his  son.  A  great  change  had  come 
over  the  older  man. 

"Now  listen,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  was  no  longer 
156 


Grey  Threads  of  a  Spider- Web 

cold.  "I'm  going  to  make  good  this  money.  I'm  going 
to  see  that  the  matter  is  hushed  up.  You  will  be  asked 
to  resign  from  the  bank.  I  will  insist  that  you  leave, 
for  it  was  through  my  personal  influence  you  were  given 
the  position.  And  I  think  it  would  be  best  for  you 
to  go  away  from  Edenburg  for  a  while.  I  want  you 
to  go  to  some  other  city — to  start  in  again  alone,  with 
a  clean  slate.  I  want  you  to  do  it  without  help.  I  want 
you  to  prove  to  me  that  this  has  only  been  a  slip.  I 
think  I  can  explain  the  matter  to  your  mother  so  she 
will  not  suspect  that  anything  is  wrong;  but  I  don't 
want  you  here  in  my  house  until  you  have  proved  your 
good  faith.  I  couldn't  face  you,  knowing  that  you  were 
a  thief.  .  .  .  It's  the  only  thing  to  do.  Go  and  pack 
your  things  at  once — and  God  grant  that  you  may  make 
good !" 

"Don't  send  me  away,  father,"  the  young  man  pleaded. 
"Let  me  stay." 

"It's  no  use,"  his  father  told  him.  "You  have  dis- 
graced me  with  many  of  my  business  associates.  I  shall 
always  blush  whenever  I  meet  one  of  the  bank's  di- 
rectors. There  is  no  place  for  you  here  in  my  house  at 
present.  You  must  go, — that  is  the  condition  on  which 
I  am  willing  to  help  you." 

Without  a  word  the  young  man  went  to  his  room  and 
began  making  ready  for  his  departure. 

Elijah  Bradshaw  found  his  wife  in  the  garden,  and 
told  her  that  their  son  had  decided  to  try  his  hand  in 
other  fields.  As  he  was  explaining  to  her,  he  saw  a 
look  of  doubt  and  disbelief  come  into  her  eyes.  When 
he  had  finished  she  turned  to  him  sorrowfully. 

"If  you  think  it  is  best,  Elijah,"  she  said,  "of  course 
I  will  not  offer  any  objection." 

157 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

She  asked  no  questions,  but  Bradshaw  felt  uneasy, 
for  somehow  he  felt  that  the  gentle  woman  was  uncon- 
vinced by  his  explanation  of  why  Paul  was  going  away. 
However,  he  called  up  Bellamy  and  explained  what  had 
been  done. 

Then  he  drove  downtown  and  arranged  for  his  son's 
transportation. 

That  night  after  dinner,  when  Paul  had  bade  his 
mother  and  sister  good-bye,  he  took  his  father  aside. 

"Was  it  Bellamy  who  told  you  about  the  girl?"  he 
asked. 

"No,  it  was  not  Bellamy,"  the  older  man  told  him. 

"But  there  was  no  one  else  here  this  morning,"  the 
other  protested.  "Bellamy  and  the  servants  were  the 
only  ones " 

He  stopped  suddenly,  for  he  had  seen  the  Woman 
pass  into  the  library  at  the  far  end  of  the  hall. 

"I  know  who  it  was!"  he  announced.  "It  was  that 
new  maid  you  have  here.  I  have  seen  her  somewhere 
before.  Who  is  she,  anyway  ?  There's  something  mighty 
strange " 

"There  is  nothing  strange,"  put  in  Bradshaw,  with  an 
attempt  at  unconcern.  "And  it  makes  no  difference  who 
told  me." 

He  glanced  at  the  clock. 

"I  am  going  to  walk  with  your  mother  and  sister 
to  the  Tabernacle.  I'll  be  back  in  half  an  hour.  Then 
I'll  go  with  you  to  the  station." 

Bradshaw  had  not  intended  that  there  should  be  any- 
thing even  approaching  a  reconciliation  between  him  and 
his  son.  But  all  that  day,  as  the  time  drew  near  for 
the  young  man  to  go,  his  conscience  had  troubled  him 
more  and  more.  As  his  anger  had  subsided,  his  love  for 
158 


Grey  Threads  of  a  Spicier-Web 

his  son  again  came  uppermost,  and  so,  at  the  last  mo- 
ment, he  had  decided  not  to  let  Paul  go  alone,  but  to 
accompany  him  to  the  train.  The  decision  for  this  act 
had  been  inspired  by  a  sudden  wave  of  tenderness — a 
tenderness  which  heretofore  had  been  alien  to  his  nature. 

When  he  told  his  son  of  his  decision,  the  young  man 
in  a  degree  understood  the  motive  that  was  back  of 
it,  and  something  gripped  at  his  throat. 

When  his  father  had  gone  to  the  Tabernacle,  he 
went  into  the  library  to  await  his  return. 

There  he  found  the  Woman. 


159 


CHAPTER  X 

THE  YOUNG  GENERATION 

FOR  a  moment  Paul  paid  no  attention  to  her.  She 
was  arranging  some  books  on  the  shelf,  and  her 
back  was  to  him.  He  had  just  beheld  a  new  phase  of 
his  father's  character,  and  it  had  mellowed  him  in  his 
attitude  toward  the  older  man.  Elijah  Bradshaw's  offer 
to  go  with  his  son  to  the  train,  with  the  touch  of  sym- 
pathy a"nd  paternal  affection  which  it  implied,  was  incon- 
sistent with  all  that  obdurate  man's  previous  acts.  Paul 
wondered  what  could  have  brought  about  the  change 
in  him;  and,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  felt  a  sense 
of  shame  and  regret  at  having  caused  the  other  any 
suffering.  His  attitude  toward  his  father  had  always 
been  an  antagonistic  one.  Now,  as  the  two  were  about 
to  separate,  perhaps  for  all  time,  this  attitude  disap- 
peared. Paul  felt  that  he  had  come  closer  to  an  un- 
derstanding of  his  father's  nature  than  ever  before. 

As  he  sat  awaiting  the  other's  return,  going  over 
in  his  mind  the  details  of  the  day,  he  again  wondered 
how  his  father  had  learned  of  the  girl  for  whom  he 
had  taken  the  money.  He  looked  at  the  Woman  who 
stood  a  little  way  from  him,  and  could  not  help  feel- 
ing that  in  some  way  she  was  responsible. 

At  first  he  had  accepted  her  presence  in  the  house 
without  question,  but,  ever  since  the  night  when  she 
had  sat  up  for  him  and  admitted  him,  he  had  felt  that 
160 


The  Young  Generation 

she  was  not  merely  a  common  servant.  He  believed  that, 
no  matter  how  deceived  his  father  or  mother  might 
be,  there  was  a  mystery  attached  to  her  presence.  By 
nature  he  was  sceptical  and  a  little  suspicious,  and  as 
he  watched  the  Woman  arranging  the  volumes  of  books, 
some  impulse  prompted  him  to  question  her. 

"Look  here,"  he  said,  not  unpleasantly,  "I  want  to  ask 
you  a  few  questions." 

When  the  Woman  had  turned  to  him  he  looked  at 
her  sharply. 

"Who  are  you,  and  why  did  you  come  here  ?" 

"You  know  that  I  am  a  servant,"  she  answered,  meet- 
ing his  eyes  steadily.  "And  your  father  gave  me  a  place 
here  because  he  knew  where  I  came  from." 

Paul  Bradshaw  was  not  satisfied. 

"Of  course,  I  know  you  pose  as  a  servant,"  he  said, 
"and  I  presume  my  father  knew  who  you  were  before 
he  engaged  you.  But  that  isn't  all  there  is  to  it.  You're 
not  like  any  other  servant  I've  ever  seen."  Then  he 
remarked :  "There's  something  wrong  somewhere." 

"Yes,  there  is  something  wrong  somewhere,"  the 
Woman  agreed,  with  a  slight  smile. 

She  looked  away  and  added,  as  if  to  no  one  in  par- 
ticular: "But  perhaps  things  will  be  better  some 
day." 

Paul  scrutinised  her  curiously.  "I  knew  there  was 
something  the  matter.  .  .  .  Come,  tell  me  what  it  is. 
I'm  going  away,  and  I  won't  tell  the  governor." 

"I  know  you  are  going,"  the  Woman  replied,  "and  I 
am  sorry.  I  had  hoped  your  father  would  let  you  stay. 
If  things  vrere  not  wrong  here  you  would  be  stay- 
ing." 

"You  seem  to  know  a  lot  of  things,"  the  young  man 

161 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

answered  her  with  sarcasm.     "I  suppose  you  know  why 
I  am  going  away." 

"Yes,  I  know  that,  too,"  the  Woman  responded 
quietly. 

The  young  man  leaped  to  his  feet 

"What  do  you  know?"  he  demanded  angrily. 

His  suspicion  that  it  had  been  the  Woman  who  had 
informed  his  father  about  the  girl  in  Orchard  Street 
flashed  back  over  him  suddenly. 

"Say,  look  here;  did  you  tell  my  father  anything?" 

"You  mean  about  Ruth  Young?  .  .  .  Yes,  I  told  him." 
The  Woman's  voice  was  calm. 

"You  told  him!"  Paul  swung  around  and  glared  at 
her.  "What  business  have  you  interfering  in  my  af- 
fairs. .  .  .  Who  are  you,  anyway?" 

"Perhaps  you  have  seen  me  before,"  tb.e  Woman 
answered,  coming  closer  to  him. 

He  studied  her  face  a  moment. 

"You  do  look  familiar,"  he  drew  out  slowly.  "Your 
eyes! — I  have  seen  you  somewhere."  Then  his 
anger  returned  to  him.  "But  that  doesn't  tell  me  why 
you  should  go  blabbing  to  my  father.  I'll  fix  you  for 
tipping  him  off  to  my  business." 

"How?"  the  Woman  asked  quietly. 

"I'll  have  you  fired — that's  how."  Paul's  anger  had 
got  the  better  of  him.  "I'm  beginning  to  get  wise 
to  you.  You're  too  smooth  to  suit  me.  Do  you  know 
what  I  think  you  are?  I  think  you  are  a  plant  here 
for  some  crook,  and  I'm  going  to  put  the  old  man 
next  when  he  comes  back." 

"I  shouldn't  advise  you  to  speak  to  your  father  about 
me,"  the  Woman  admonished  him  indifferently.     "Per- 
haps he  knows  more  about  me  than  you  do." 
162 


The  Young  Generation 

The  young  man  was  not  sure  of  himself.  There 
was  something  in  the  situation  of  the  Woman  being 
in  the  house  that  he  could  not  fathom.  He  knew  how 
careful  his  father  was  about  servants,  how  strict  he 
was  in  regard  to  their  references.  Also  he  knew  that 
Elijah  Bradshaw  was  shrewd,  and  it  seemed  unlikely 
that  he  could  have  been  deceived  about  any  of  his 
employes. 

"Well,  at  that,"  he  admitted,  "maybe  the  old  man  does 
know  what  he  is  about.  Only,  what  I'd  like  to  know 
is  how  you  found  out  about  me,  and  why  you  should 
try  to  get  me  into  trouble  ?" 

"I  didn't  try  to  get  you  into  trouble,"  the  Woman 
answered  tenderly.  "I  wanted  to  help  you.  I've  wanted 
to  help  you  ever  since  I  have  been  here.  I  thought 
maybe  your  father  would  be  more  lenient  with  you  if 
he  knew  that  you  had  stolen  for  a  woman.  I  had  my 
reasons  for  thinking  so.  Perhaps,  after  all,  he  might 
have  let  you  go  to  jail  if  he  hadn't  known  the  truth. 
He's  hard  and  unforgiving.  Things  have  to  be 
brought  home  to  him  very  closely  before  he  will  give 
in." 

The  young  man  was  silent. 

"You  see,"  she  went  on,  "I  wanted  him  to  know 
that  your  theft  wasn't  altogether  a  selfish  one,  but  that 
it  was  due  to  weakness — to  the  weakness  of  your  love; 
and  I  wanted  him  to  know,  too,  that  even  that  love  of 
yours  was  a  weakness.  I  wanted  him  to  realise  that,  if 
he  sent  you  away  or  let  the  bank  prosecute  you,  you 
would  not  be  the  only  one  who  would  suffer,  that  also 
the  girl  would  be  left  alone  and  hopeless.  If  he  knew  all 
these  things  he  would  understand  that,  in  sending  you 
away  or  letting  you  go  to  jail,  he  would  be  forcing  you 

163 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

to  desert  some  one.  I  had  cause  to  believe  that,  when  he 
knew  this,  he  would  let  you  stay." 

"Gad,  that  was  decent  of  you!"  the  young  man  told 
her.  "But,  you  see,  it  did  no  good.  He's  sending  me 
away  just  the  same,  and  Ruth  will  be  as  bad  off  as  if  I 
went  to  jail." 

"You  mean,"  the  Woman  asked  incredulously,  "that 
he  has  acted  without  making  any  provision  for  her,  that 
your  father  has  not  thought  of  her,  that  he  has  said 
nothing  to  you  about  her  ?" 

"Why,  no,"  the  young  man  replied.  "He  even  told 
me  I  would  have  to  give  her  up." 

"But  he  gave  you  some  money,  didn't  he?"  the  Woman 
asked. 

"Yes,"  Paul  admitted.  "He  gave  me  enough  to  get 
started  with — where  I'm  going.  But  that  was  all." 

"You  are  not  going  to  take  it  all  with  you,  are  you?" 
The  Woman  looked  at  him  expectantly.  "That  would 
hardly  be  fair,  would  it?  You  know  the  girl  has  no 
money  to  live  on?" 

The  young  man  frowned.    "I  hadn't  thought  of  that." 

"You  must  go  to  her,"  the  Woman  said.  "You  must 
do  what  you  can  to  help  her.  She  loves  you,  and  it 
will  be  hard  enough  for  her  to  bear  your  absence.  What 
is  she  to  do?  It  will  be  difficult  for  her  to  get  work — 
under  the  circumstances.  Your  father  will  not  let  her 
work  for  him.  The  fact  that  he  has  discharged  her 
will  make  every  one  else  in  Edenburg  turn  her  away. 
It  will  be  hard  on  you,  I  know,  to  go  without  money ; 
but  had  you  thought  that  it  will  be  much  harder  for  her  ? 
After  all,  she  is  the  weaker,  and  you  owe  something  to 
her  for  her  love." 

The  young  man  sat  for  a  long  time  in  deep  thought, 
164 


The  Young  Generation 

his  face  in  his  hands.  The  Woman's  words  had  stirred 
him  strangely.  They  awakened  in  him  a  point  of  view 
which,  during  the  stress  of  his  own  misfortune,  he  had 
lost  sight  of. 

But  he  could  not  altogether  shake  himself  free  from 
the  mystery  attaching  to  the  Woman,  who  had  now 
stepped  back  into  the  shadow  of  the  portieres  and  was 
watching  him  anxiously.  How  did  she  happen  to  know 
so  much  about  his  personal  affairs  ?  Why  was  a  woman 
like  her  playing  the  uncongenial  role  of  a  servant  ?  What 
could  be  the  meaning  of  her  presence  in  his  father's 
house?  And  why  should  she  have  taken  so  vital  an 
interest  in  the  things  which  did  not  affect  her  personally  ? 

Before  he  had  brought  himself  to  answer  her,  Otto 
entered  the  room.  Despite  his  calm  demeanour,  his 
voice  shook  nervously  when  he  announced  that  there  was 
a  police  officer  at  the  side  door  who  wished  to  see  Elijah 
Bradshaw. 

The  young  man's  face  grew  pale.  He  clasped  his 
hands  nervously,  and  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"What  does  he  want?"  he  asked  shakily. 

"He  didn't  say,"  replied  the  man.  "He  asked  to  see 
your  father." 

The  other  hesitated,  and  looked  at  the  Woman  as 
if  for  help.  But  she  did  not  move  or  change  her  ex- 
pression. It  occurred  to  him  that  there  had  been  some 
miscalculation  on  the  part  of  his  father,  that  the  bank 
officials  had  taken  action  without  waiting  for  Elijah 
Bradshaw's  decision.  He  knew  his  father  would  be 
returning  from  the  Tabernacle  very  soon,  and  he  de- 
cided it  were  best  to  see  the  officer  and  detain  him  until 
the  older  man  should  return. 

He  lighted  a  cigarette  with  trembling  fingers,  and 

165 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

tried  to  reason  the  matter  out;  but  his  brain  was  in  a 
panic. 

"You'd  better  have  him  come  in  here,  Otto,"  he  said 
in  a  strained  voice.  "I'll  see  him — until  the  Governor 
returns." 

He  threw  his  cigarette  away  nervously,  and  lighted 
another. 

"Perhaps  it's  about  something  else,"  came  the  steady 
voice  of  the  Woman,  although  she  did  not  move  from 
where  she  stood  half  hidden  in  the  gloom  of  the  heavy 
curtains. 

"What  else  could  it  be?"  His  voice  still  shook.  He 
looked  fearfully  toward  the  door  through  which  Otto 
had  gone. 

At  that  moment  the  man  reappeared,  accompanied  by 
an  officer. 

"You  may  go,  Otto,"  he  said,  assuming  an  easy 
air. 

The  officer  was  a  heavy-set  Irishman,  with  a  close 
black  moustache.  He  wore  civilian  clothes  and  a  soft 
black  hat.  His  appearance  was  aggressive  and  formi- 
dable, and  he  looked  at  the  other  man  with  a  little 
surprise. 

"You're  not  Mr.  Bradshaw,  are  you?"  His  words 
were  cold  and  businesslike. 

The  young  man  had  put  on  a  brave  face.  He  half 
leaned  and  half  sat  on  his  father's  desk. 

"I  am  Mr.  Bradshaw,  junior." 

"Oh,  I  see !"  replied  the  officer.  "But  it  was  your  old 
man  I  wanted  to  speak  to." 

"He's  not  here  now."    Despite  his  efforts,  there  was 
a  tremor  in  his  voice.     "But  you  can  tell  me,  I  guess. 
.  .  .  What's  the  trouble?" 
166 


The  Young  Generation 

The  other  man  hesitated.  Then  he  jerked  his  head 
slightly,  as  if  he  had  made  a  decision. 

"I  guess  I  can  tell  you  about  it.  It's  about  a  woman 
you've  got  working  here.  I  was  sent  to  get  a  line  on 
her.  My  name's  Burke;  I'm  from  headquarters." 

Paul  Bradshaw  was  noticeably  relieved.  He  straight- 
ened up  and  puffed  vigorously  at  his  cigarette. 

"Oh,  is  that  what  you  have  come  here  for?  A  girl? 
We  have  several  girls  working  here.  What  one  do  you 
want  to  know  about?" 

The  officer  reached  in  his  pocket  and  drew  forth  a 
note-book. 

"Accordin*  to  our  dope  sheet,"  he  said,  looking  at 
the  book,  "her  name's  Packard.  We  got  the  tip  that 
she  come  here  yesterday.  Did  you  have  a  dame  start 
workin'  then?" 

The  young  man  glanced  at  the  Woman. 

"Yes,  I  believe  so.    What  about  her?" 

"Well,  accordin'  to  this,"  the  officer  explained,  read- 
ing, "her  height's  five  foot  four  inches,  weight  about 
a  hundred  and  thirty,  red  hair,  eyes  uncertain  colour, 
rather  good  looking,  age  about  twenty-five." 

The  young  man  smiled  slyly.  He  was  thinking  that 
his  suspicions  about  the  Woman  being  a  thief's  accom- 
plice were  about  to  be  realised. 

"Yes,  that  description  fits  her,"  he  said  with  guarded 
irony.  "What  has  she  done?" 

"It's  up  to  me,  Mr.  Bradshaw,"  the  officer  announced 
confidentially,  "to  tip  you  off  that  up  to  last  Tuesday 
she  was  an  inmate  of  a  house  of  prostitution  run  by 
Daisy  Stafford  on  West  Street." 

The  young  man  whistled  softly  and  shook  his  head 
several  times  in  wonderment. 

167 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

"So  that's  it,  is  it !" 

"If  the  Jane's  here,"  the  police  informer  went  on, 
"I'd  like  to  look  her  over." 

At  these  words  the  Woman  stepped  from  out  the 
darkness,  and  confronted  the  officer. 

"Here  I  am,"  she  announced  resignedly. 

The  man  regarded  her  with  triumphant  amusement. 

"Sure,  you  are,"  he  said  ironically.  "I  made  you  the 
minute  I  lamped  you." 

He  turned  to  Paul  Bradshaw. 

"You  see,  sir,  we  know  'em  by  sight." 

"What  is  it  you  want  me  to  do?"  the  Woman  asked 
quietly. 

The  officer  refused  to  be  impressed  by  her  manner. 

"The  first  thing,"  he  said,  "I'm  going  to  wise  these 
people  up  to  who  you  are ;  and  then  I  want  you  to  report 
to  headquarters  just  where  you  beat  it  to  next." 

"But  suppose  I  stay  here?"  the  Woman  asked. 

"Well,  if  you  stick  here,  you're  to  kick  in  with  a  weekly 
report  just  the  same." 

He  laughed  cynically. 

"Say,  you've  got  a  swell  chance  of  staying  here  when 
old  man  Bradshaw  gets  hep,"  he  told  her. 

"Gad!  Father'll  have  seven  kinds  of  fits  when  he 
finds  out  who  she  is,"  the  young  man  put  in,  eyeing  the 
Woman  amusedly. 

"Well,  it's  up  to  you  to  tip  him  off,"  said  the  officer, 
folding  up  his  paper  and  giving  the  Woman  a  warning 
look. 

"Now  get  this,"  he  added  to  her,  "and  get  it  straight : 
— it's  little  bright  eyes  to  the  station  once  a  week, 
or  we'll  be  backing  the  wagon  up  for  you.  Remem- 
ber!" 

168 


The  Young  Generation 

"I'll  remember,"  answered  the  Woman,  as  the  officer 
went  out. 

When  he  had  gone  the  young  man  scrutinised  the 
Woman  closely,  and  a  smile  spread  slowly  over  his 
face. 

"So  that's  who  you  are!"  His  tone  was  a  trifle 
arrogant.  "Thought  you'd  pull  the  wool  over  my  eyes, 
did  you?  Well,  you're  pretty  slick,  at  that.  Now  I'll 
show  you  how  I'll  get  even  with  you  for  blabbing  to 
the  old  man.  You  know  what  he  thinks  of  girls  in 
your  line  of  business.  Why,  he's  bossing  this  whole 
campaign  right  now  to  put  the  Tenderloin  out  of  busi- 
ness." 

He  laughed  heartily.  "Say,  it's  a  great  joke  on  him, 
to  have  you  here." 

"You'd  better  take  my  advice  and  not  bring  the  mat- 
ter up  with  your  father." 

There  was  something  in  the  Woman's  voice  that  made 
the  man  wonder  if,  after  all,  she  was  not  right.  But 
after  a  moment's  thought  he  dismissed  the  possibility 
of  his  father  knowing  the  true  state  of  affairs. 

"Well,  I'm  not  going  to  take  your  advice,"  he  said 
airily.  "You  might  fool  the  old  man,  but  you  can't 
fool  me." 

The  Woman  ignored  his  remark. 

"What  about  the  girl  ?"  she  asked. 

"Well,  what  about  her?"  The  man  was  in  a  different 
mood  now.  "I  guess  she  can  take  care  of  herself.  She 
always  has.  Suppose  she  had  never  met  me?  She'd  be 
in  a  worse  fix,  wouldn't  she  ?  At  least  she's  got  a  decent 
place  to  live  now." 

"You're  not  going  to  help  her?"  asked  the  Woman 
sorrowfully,  "and  you  are  not  sorry?" 

169 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

"Sure,  I'm  sorry,"  he  replied  indifferently.  "She's  a 
good  sort.  But  where  do  I  get  off  if  I  give  up 
my  money?  I've  got  to  look  out  for  number  one, 
haven't  I?" 

"But  what's  to  become  of  her?" 

"What's  that  to  me?"  The  man  spoke  irritably.  "I 
guess  she  can  win  another  home  with  her  looks, — it's 
a  cinch." 

"And  yet  she  gave  up  everything  for  you,  didn't  she? 
She  gave  up  her  friends,  her  respectability,  her  good 
name.  And  she  was  a  good  woman  before  you  came 
into  her  life." 

"Oh,  I  suppose  so,"  the  man  agreed.  "But  what's 
the  idea?  .  .  .  Say,  you've  got  your  nerve  pulling  this 
kind  of  talk  with  me." 

He  looked  at  her  threateningly. 

The  Woman  stood  a  little  in  the  shadow.  The 
beauty  of  her  face  was  made  even  more  beautiful  by 
the  soft  lighting.  Her  hair  glowed  dully.  Her  eyes, 
full  of  sorrow  and  appeal,  were  on  the  man's. 
Her  lips  were  slightly  parted  and  seemed  unusually 
red. 

As  Paul  Bradshaw  looked  at  her  he  was  startled  by 
the  picture  she  made.  His  resentment  toward  her  died 
away,  and  he  was  conscious  only  of  the  Woman's  physi- 
cal attractiveness. 

"Gad,  you're  pretty!"  he  exclaimed.  "Somehow,  you 
remind  me  of  Ruth." 

He  approached  her,  feeling  in  some  strange  and  in- 
describable manner  that  the  girl  who  loved  him  was 
in  the  room. 

"Come,  give  me  a  good-bye  kiss,"  he  said. 

As  he  approached  her,  she  stepped  back. 
170 


The  Young  Generation 

"None  of  that  now,"  he  commanded  sharply.  "Who 
do  you  think  you  are?" 

He  reached  for  the  Woman,  but  she  drew  away  from 
him. 

The  man  was  piqued. 

"You're  going  to  kiss  me  good-bye — do  you  hear?" 
he  said  sharply.  "I'm  not  the  kind  that  takes  'No'  for 
an  answer — especially  from  your  kind.  If  you  put  up 
a  fight,  I'll  tell  the  old  man  who  you  are — and  that 
goes !" 

"Don't !  Don't  touch  me,"  the  Woman  breathed,  pity- 
ingly, rather  than  angrily. 

The  man  was  not  deterred.  He  caught  the  Woman  in 
his  arms,  and  tried  to  force  her  to  turn  her  lips  to 
his. 

At  that  instant,  unheeded  by  those  in  the  room,  Elijah 
Bradshaw  entered.  He  took  one  look  at  his  son,  and 
turned  purple  with  rage. 

"Paul!"  he  shouted. 

The  young  man  sprang  away  from  the  Woman,  and 
met  his  father's  horrified  gaze. 

"How  dare  you  do  a  thing  like  this  in  my  house?"  the 
other  cried  out,  enraged.  "An  hour  ago  I  saved  you 
from  the  penitentiary — saved  you,  a  thief,  a  common 
thief!  And  now  I  come  and  find — this.  I  could  for- 
give you  the  other,  but  for  this  bestiality  there  is  no 
forgiveness.  .  .  .  Now,  take  your  things  and  get  out! 
Get  out  and  stay  out !" 

He  pointed  toward  the  door. 

"But,  father,  you  don't  know,"  the  other  stammered. 
"You  don't  know  who  this  woman  is." 

Bradshaw  squared  himself  angrily.  "And  I  don't 
care." 

171 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

"But  you  would  care,  if  you  knew.  Only  a  minute 
ago — an  officer " 

"Will  you  go?"  roared  the  older  man.  "Or  must  I 
put  you  out  by  force  ?" 

He  went  to  the  door  and  opened  it. 

"Pick  up  that  suitcase." 

His  son  obeyed  him  mechanically. 

"Now  then,  out  of  that  door,  and  so  long  as  I  am 
alive,  never  enter  it  again!" 

Abashed  and  frightened,  Paul  Bradshaw  went  out 
without  a  word. 

As  he  started  down  the  front  steps  some  impulse  made 
him  turn  round.  At  the  window  stood  the  Woman 
looking  at  him.  She  wore  an  expression  of  tremendous 
pathos,  and,  although  he  could  not  account  for  it,  he 
again  saw  in  the  Woman's  face  something  that  reminded 
him  of  Ruth  Young. 

He  went  slowly  down  the  street  from  his  home.  All 
bitterness  had  left  him.  He  was  ashamed  of.  his  actions 
and  of  the  pain  he  had  given  his  father.  As  he  walked 
in  the  cool  air,  pity  for  the  girl  he  loved  took  posses- 
sion of  him.  He  was  broken  and  depressed,  and  the 
tragedy  of  his  life  weighed  heavily  upon  him.  He  looked 
back  at  the  house — his  home  from  which  he  had  been 
driven — and  his  eyes  lingered  along  the  familiar  street 
with  its  rows  of  denuded  maple  trees.  Hot  tears  started 
to  his  eyes  and  blinded  his  vision. 

A  terrible  loneliness  swept  over  him.  His  downfall 
had  come  so  suddenly  and  so  precipitously  that  he  could 
hardly  grasp  the  full  meaning  of  it.  He  wanted  to  go 
back  and  beg  his  father  for  forgiveness  for  the  sorrow 
he  had  caused  him,  and,  strangely  enough,  he  wanted 
to  apologise  to  the  Woman,  for,  despite  the  revelations 
172 


The  Young  Generation 

of  the  officer,  he  was  unable  to  look  upon  her  as  what 
she  was.  But  he  knew  he  could  not  go  back.  The  world 
of  his  maturity  lay  before  him,  cold  and  inhospitable. 
He  would  have  to  face  it  alone,  without  assistance,  with- 
out friends. 

And  on  the  top  of  the  wave  of  self-pity  which  swept 
over  him  rode  the  sad  face  of  the  girl  he  was  leaving 
behind.  What  of  her?  She  must  face  the  cruelty  of 
life,  just  as  he  was  now  facing  it;  only  he  had  every 
advantage.  She  was  helpless,  almost  an  outcast;  and 
to  her  condition  he  had  contributed  much.  Something 
tightened  about  his  heart,  and  he  was  brought  up  sud- 
denly by  the  realisation  of  the  girl's  helplessness. 

He  glanced  at  his  watch.  It  was  an  hour  before  train 
time.  He  could  still  feel  the  eyes  of  the  Woman  on 
him,  and  her  appeals  came  back  to  him,  subtly  accusing 
him  and  directing  his  sympathies. 

Some  power,  stronger  than  he  was,  took  him  in  hand, 
and  turned  his  face  toward  the  girl's  house. 

He  hailed  a  passing  cab  and  gave  the  driver  her 
street  number.  Why  was  he  going  to  her?  he  asked 
himself  on  the  way.  Why  did  her  sorrow  for  the  mo- 
ment transcend  his  own?  Why  did  he  resolve  to  give 
her  what  little  money  he  had?  He  could  not  answer 
these  questions.  He  only  knew  that  these  were  the 
things  he  was  going  to  do — the  things  which  something 
deep  within  him  was  forcing  him  to  do. 

In  ten  minutes  he  stood  before  her  door,  and  it  seemed 
as  if  he  had  never  loved  her  so  much  as  now.  He  left 
his  suitcase  in  the  hallway  and  entered  without  knocking. 

Ruth  Young  sat  before  the  fire  which  was  the  only 
light  in  the  room.  She  was  scarcely  more  than  a  girl, 
but  she  wore  a  look  of  wistfulness  and  submission,  as 

173 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

if  life  had  been  cruel  to  her — as  if  she  were  in  posses- 
sion of  tragic  secrets  which  did  not  belong  to  her  youth 
— secrets  which  only  older  women  should  know.  She 
was  a  slender,  pale  girl,  whose  spiritual  strength  seemed 
to  have  been  called  upon  to  bear  burdens  for  which 
she  was  not  yet  ready.  Her  eyes  were  large  and  deep ; 
her  mouth  was  frail  and  gentle,  like  the  mouths  of  the 
old  paintings  of  the  Madonna.  She  wore  a  simple  dress 
which  half  concealed  and  half  revealed  the  lines  of  her 
girlish  figure. 

When  Paul  Bradshaw  entered  she  glanced  around 
quickly.  Her  face  brightened,  with  a  look  of  love  and 
happiness. 

"Something  told  me  you  would  come  to-night,  dear," 
she  said  simply.  "I  have  been  sitting  here  for  an  hour 
thinking  about  you.  It  is  so  hard  when  you  are  away." 

The  man  kissed  her  gently,  and  sat  down  by  her  side, 
taking  her  hand  in  his. 

She  looked  at  him  from  under  her  long  lashes. 

"What  is  the  matter?"  she  asked  sympathetically. 
"You  look  worried.  Has  anything  gone  wrong?  ...  It 
would  break  my  heart  if  anything  happened  to 
you." 

"Nothing  serious  has  happened,"  he  said,  assuming 
as  easy  a  manner  as  he  was  able.  "I  knew  you  would 
need  some  money,  and  I  came  to  bring  it  to  you." 

The  girl  did  not  answer  for  a  moment. 

"If  you  only  knew  how  I  hate  all  this,"  she  said, 
looking  fixedly  into  the  leaping  flames.  "It  wouldn't  be 
so  bad  if  I  could  have  you  all  the  time.  ...  I  have  no 
one  now  but  you." 

"I  know,"  the  man  answered  gently.     "It  is  hard  on 
both  of  us." 
174 


The  Young  Generation 

Then  he  forced  himself  to  add :  "Things  will  be  better 
later  on;  I'm  sure  they  will." 

"And  yet,"  she  said  wistfully,  "when  I  plan  for  our 
future,  or  dream  about  it,  there  always  seems  to  be 
some  terrible  cloud  hanging  over  our  lives.  I  know  it's 
foolish,  but  I  can't  seem  to  get  the  idea  out  of  my  foolish 
head  that  I'm  going  to  lose  you.  You'll  meet  some  one 
else,  perhaps — some  one  who  can  make  you  so  much  hap- 
pier than  I.  And  then,  there  is  your  father — if  he  should 
ever  find  out  of  our  love,  he'd  never  forgive  you.  He'd 
do  everything  he  could  to  take  you  away  from  me.  I 
think  that's  what  worries  me  more  than  anything  else." 

There  was  a  silence,  broken  only  by  the  sporadic  sput- 
tering of  the  fire  and  the  distant  noises  of  the  street. 

"There  is  something  the  matter,  isn't  there?"  she  in- 
sisted at  length  in  a  frightened  voice.  "Ever  since  the 
other  day  when  you  took  me  away  from  Orchard  Street 
and  got  me  this  place  to  live  in,  you  have  acted  strangely. 
.  .  .  Tell  me,  dear;  where  did  you  get  the  money  for  it? 
You  always  told  me  how  strict  your  father  was  about 
what  you  spent." 

The  man  moved  uneasily.  "It  was  money  I  have  had 
a  long  time — money  I  had  been  saving.  .  .  .  You  mustn't 
worry  about  it :  I  told  you  everything  was  all  right." 

The  girl  sighed  a  little,  not  altogether  satisfied.  But 
she  saw  it  was  no  use  questioning  him. 

"To-morrow,"  she  told  him,  "I  shall  have  my  divorce. 
The  lawyer  said  there  would  be  no  trouble  about  it. 
Then,  somehow,  I  will  be  happier.  I  won't  feel  so  guilty 
being  with  you.  What  we  are  doing  is  wrong — and  you 
know  it,  dear.  Sometimes  I  wish  that  we  had  never  seen 
each  other  until  this  whole  terrible  affair  was  over." 

The  man  tried  to  comfort  her.  He  knew  that  in  a  few 

175 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

minutes  he  must  tell  her  of  his  going  away.  He  shrank 
from  the  task.  But  he  resolved  to  have  it  over  at  once. 

"Ruth,"  he  began,  in  a  voice  of  calm  determination, 
"now  listen  to  me,  and  try  to  understand  what  I  am  going 
to  say.  Try  to  be  brave,  and  don't  make  it  harder  for 
me  than  it  is." 

The  girl  drew  back  from  him,  frightened,  for  in  his 
words  she  felt  a  premonition  of  disaster. 

"I've  got  to  go  away,"  the  man  continued  in  a  steady 
voice.  "It  can't  be  helped.  I  am  going  away  on  business 
for  my  father.  I  don't  know  how  long  I'll  be  gone — it 
may  be  for  long.  But  I  want  you  to  know  that,  if  I  could 
stay,  I  would — on  your  account.  I  can't  take  you  with 
me,  for  I  won't  have  enough  money.  Father  has  allowed 
me  barely  enough  for  my  expenses.  It  all  came  very 
suddenly,  and  there  was  no  way  of  putting  it  off,  or  of 
getting  out  of  it." 

The  girl  began  to  sob  gently. 

"I  knew  it — I  knew  it,"  she  said.  "Tell  me  why  you 
are  going.  There's  something  you  are  keeping  from  me." 

"I  am  telling  you  everything,"  he  answered  resolutely. 

He  could  not  bear  to  admit  the  truth — the  girl's  suffer- 
ing would  have  been  too  keen.  He  felt  that,  at  all  costs, 
he  must  deceive  her  as  to  the  real  reason  of  his  departure. 
She  must  never  know  that  the  comfort  of  the  home  he 
had  secured  for  her  had  been  paid  for  with  stolen  money, 
for  he  knew  she  then  would  have  given  it  up. 

"The  thing  is  very  simple,"  he  explained.  "Father 
has  interests  in  Chicago,  and  he  is  too  busy  to  leave  here 
just  now.  Something  came  up  very  suddenly — some- 
thing— which  needed  attending  to.  It  was  only  natural 
that  he  should  have  sent  me.  That's  why  I'm  going.  I 
only  found  it  out  to-day,  and  this  is  the  first  opportunity 
176 


The  Young  Generation 

I've  had  of  telling  you.  .  .  .  But  you  mustn't  worry," 
he  went  on,  putting  his  arm  about  the  girl.  "You  know 
I  love  you — better  than  anything  in  the  world,  and, 
somehow,  I  don't  feel  that  we  have  done  wrong.  You 
mustn't  ever  think  that.  If  circumstances  had  been  dif- 
ferent we  would  be  married  now.  But,  even  so,  we 
couldn't  love  each  other  any  more  than  we  do.  I'll  come 
back  to  you — as  soon  as  I  can.  We'll  write  to  each  other 
often.  I  shall  never  forget  you.  I  shall  never  love 
any  one  else  as  long  as  I  live." 

"You  talk  as  if  you  were  never  going  to  see  me  again," 
the  girl  sobbed. 

"Of  course  I  shall,"  the  man  forced  himself  to 
say. 

Already  he  was  planning  to  work  hard  and  diligently. 
He  wanted  to  succeed  so  that  he  might  send  for  the  girl 
and  marry  her. 

"We  are  both  young,"  he  went  on,  trying  to  convince 
himself  also.  "Our  whole  lives  are  before  us,  and,  even 
if  I  can't  come  back,  you  will  come  to  me,  and  we  will  be 
happy.  It  may  be  that  I'll  have  to  stay  in  Chicago  and 
take  over  my  father's  affairs,  but  before  very  long  there 
will  be  enough  money  for  both  of  us  to  live  on.  And 
the  minute  that  day  comes  I  will  send  for  you.  You  will 
wait  for  me,  won't  you,  sweetheart?  .  .  .  You  won't 
forget  me  ?" 

"I'll  come  to  you  whenever  you  want  me,"  she  an- 
swered brokenly.  "I'll  wait  for  you  always." 

She  did  not  suggest  that  the  money  he  was  going  to 
give  her  now  might  be  used  to  take  her  with  him.  Nor 
did  she  suggest  that  she  too  could  seek  employment  in 
Chicago  and  help  support  herself.  She  felt  that  there 
was  something  back  of  his  decision,  which  she  did  not 

177 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

understand  and  which  he  did  not  care  to  tell  her.  She 
accepted  his  words  quietly,  and  without  protestation. 

The  man  arose  and  took  her  in  his  arms. 

"It  won't  be  long,"  he  said  again,  and  his  voice  trem- 
bled. 

She  turned  away  from  him  to  hide  her  grief ;  and  all 
the  money  which  his  father  had  given  him  he  took  se- 
cretly from  his  pocket  and  laid  on  the  table. 

The  girl  went  with  him  to  the  door  and  kissed  him 
bravely. 

When  he  was  out  of  sight  she  turned  again  into  the 
room  and  sat  down  before  the  fire.  She  struggled  for  a 
moment  against  her  emotions ;  but  they  were  too  great 
for  her  slender  power  of  resistance. 

She  buried  her  face  in  her  arms,  and  wept  bitterly.  .  .  . 


178 


CHAPTER  XI 

THE  MOTH  AND  THE  FLAME 

T^LIZABETH  BRADSHAW  was  lonelier  than  ever 
•*-^  after  her  brother's  departure.  She  never  realised 
before  how  much  she  had  counted  on  his  companionship. 
Formerly,  Paul  had  accompanied  her  to  all  the  parties 
she  had  been  allowed  to  attend.  Her  father  would  let 
her  go  nowhere  without  her  brother  as  an  escort;  and 
now  she  knew  that  these  few  pleasures  would  be  denied 
her. 

She  envied  Paul's  going  away,  for,  since  her  talk  with 
Macy,  she  had  dreamed  much  of  those  splendours  of  life 
which  had  been  denied  her.  With  thrills  of  intoxication 
she  had  projected  herself  into  the  world  which  had  been 
described  to  her.  Heretofore  there  had  been  compensa- 
tions in  her  life  in  Edenburg.  Her  mind  had  been  dis- 
tracted from  her  pleasant  visioning  by  the  gatherings  of 
young  people  in  her  home,  or  by  her  occasional  attend- 
ance at  informal  parties  at  the  homes  of  the  other 
young  people  in  the  city.  But  when  she  realised  that 
these  diversions  had  suddenly  been  cut  off,  she  began  to 
brood  more  than  ever.  Her  environment  became  de- 
testable to  her,  and  she  found  herself  thinking  more  and 
more  of  Macy  and  all  that  he  epitomised. 

Elijah  Bradshaw  noticed  her  gloomy  disquietude  after 
his  son  had  gone,  but  had  said  nothing  about  it,  ascribing 
it  to  what  he  thought  a  natural  grief  in  having  lost  her 

179 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

brother.  Her  mother  too  was  inclined  to  attribute  her 
melancholy  to  the  same  reason.  They  both  endeavoured 
to  cheer  her  up ;  but  their  efforts  were  unsuccessful.  They 
did  not  worry  about  her  condition,  though,  for  they  felt 
that,  in  time,  she  would  regain  her  normal  spirits. 

Another  thing,  Elijah  Bradshaw  was  too  absorbed  in 
his  own  thoughts  to  give  much  attention  to  her.  He  had 
suffered  considerably  since  driving  his  son  away.  His 
feeling  was  neither  one  of  anger  nor  yet  of  pity,  but  was 
a  combination  of  both.  His  wife's  sorrow  and  her  tears 
at  night  affected  him.  He  felt  that  he  was  in  some  meas- 
ure guilty  for  the  suffering  she  was  undergoing.  But, 
however  hard  he  might  try,  he  could  not  put  his  finger 
on  anything  which  might,  even  indirectly,  place  the  blame 
on  him  for  the  desolation  which  had  fallen  upon  his 
house.  For  two  days  after  his  son  had  gone,  he  stayed 
away  from  his  home  as  much  as  possible,  leaving  early 
in  the  morning  and  returning  late  in  the  evening  just  in 
time  for  dinner. 

Martha  Bradshaw  had  changed  greatly  since  her  son's 
departure.  There  were  times  when  she  sat  abstractedly, 
her  eyes  gazing  far  ahead.  She  did  not  refer  to  the 
matter  which  weighed  on  her  mind ;  and  more  than  once 
her  husband  wondered  secretly  if  she  suspected  anything 
out  of  the  ordinary  in  the  fact  that  Paul  had  gone  to 
Chicago.  However,  instinct  told  him  to  keep  his  silence. 

And  so  the  subject  was  not  brought  up,  except  when 
Elizabeth  would  mention  it.  But,  even  then,  it  was  not 
pursued  to  any  length.  She,  too,  was  glad  not  to  be 
reminded  of  her  brother's  absence,  for,  when  she  thought 
of  him  as  being  somewhere  out  in  that  big  world  of 
which  she  longed  to  be  a  part,  she  grew  melancholy  over 
her  own  condition. 
180 


The  Moth  and  the  Flame 

The  Woman  in  the  house,  however,  seemed  not  to  be 
deceived  by  the  girl's  sombre  quietness.  She  spoke  to 
Elizabeth  often,  and  the  girl,  hungering  for  companion- 
ship, talked  to  her  and  confided  in  her. 

"I  know  how  hard  it  is  for  you  here,"  the  Woman 
would  tell  her  maternally,  "and  I  am  sorry  for  you.  I 
wish  there  was  something  I  could  do  to  help  you.  But 
you  must  try  to  be  happy." 

"How  can  I  ?"  the  girl  asked.  "It  isn't  as  if  the  other 
girls  in  the  city  couldn't  go  out  either.  I  get  terribly 
blue  reading  in  the  papers  of  their  parties  and  their 
dances.  If  only  I  could  travel,  or  go  somewhere !  But 
mother  is  such  a  home-body:  she  never  wants  to  go 
away,  and  father  is  always  too  busy.  I  wish  I  were  a 
man,  like  Paul.  Maybe  father  would  have  to  send  me 
away  on  business  too.  .  .  .  How  I'd  love  it!" 

"Things  may  change  some  day,"  the  Woman  answered. 
"Your  father  may  change,  too." 

The  girl  shook  her  head  sadly. 

"I'm  afraid  he  never  will,"  she  said  hopelessly.  "He 
never  seems  to  change.  And,  even  if  he  should,  I'll  be 
too  old  to  enjoy  it — there  won't  be  any  life  left  in  me. 
Father  was  even  cross  when  Mr.  Macy  called — and  Paul 
and  mother  were  both  here." 

The  Woman  glanced  at  the  girl. 

"Do  you  like  Mr.  Macy?"  she  asked. 

"He's  awfully  nice,"  the  other  answered.  "And  he's 
been  everywhere.  He  knows  all  about  Europe  and 
Paris."  She  thought  a  moment.  "He's  different,  too, 
from  the  other  men  in  Edenburg.  .  .  .  Yes,  I  think  I 
like  him  very  much." 

"I'm  sorry."    The  Woman  turned  away. 

"I  don't  see  why  you  should  be  sorry,"  the  girl  said, 

181 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

a  little  resentfully.  "I  thought  you  sympathised  with  me  ? 
Maybe,  after  all,  you're  no  different  from  father  and 
mother.  Every  one's  against  me." 

"He  may  be  all  right,"  the  Woman  remarked  cryptic- 
ally. "If  things  are  going  to  happen,  no  power  in  the 
world  can  stop  them." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  the  girl  asked,  annoyed  and 
puzzled. 

"Some  day  you  will  know."  The  Woman  looked  at 
her  sorrowfully.  "There  are  things  which  every  woman 
must  find  out  for  herself." 

"I  don't  understand  you,"  the  girl  remarked  petulantly, 
"and  you're  not  pleasant  to-day." 

The  Woman  left  the  room  without  another  word. 

Elizabeth  had  been  on  the  point  of  confiding  to  her 
how,  when  she  had  been  shopping  the  day  before  and  had 
been  waiting  for  her  mother  to  join  her  so  that  they 
might  come  home  together,  she  had  accidentally  met 
Macy,  and  how  happy  he  had  appeared  to  see  her.  But 
something  in  the  Woman's  remarks  had  made  her  hesitate 
to  relate  the  incident,  simple  and  unpremeditated  as  it 
had  been. 

After  the  Woman  had  left  the  room  Elizabeth  went  to 
the  book-shelves  and  took  down  a  volume  of  travel.  She 
had  read  a  great  deal  in  such  books  lately.  They  had 
filled  her  with  wonderful  visionings,  and  set  her  heart 
beating  faster.  She  always  felt  a  little  guilty  when  read- 
ing them,  and  once,  when  she  had  heard  her  father  com- 
ing, she  had  hurried  and  put  the  book  in  its  place, 
although  she  did  not  analyse  the  motive  behind  her 
act. 

That  afternoon  she  thought  much  of  the  Woman's 
question  as  to  whether  she  liked  Macy.  She  had  been 
182 


The  Moth  and  the  Flame 

fascinated  by  him,  but  she  had  never  even  asked  herself 
if  she  liked  him  or  not.  Now  she  began  thinking  of  the 
man,  of  his  appearance,  of  his  pleasant  manners,  of  his 
descriptions  of  Europe,  of  the  delight  he  had  displayed 
when  he  had  met  her  accidentally.  The  realisation  sud- 
denly came  to  her  that  she  wanted  very  much  to  see  him 
again ;  and  at  the  Tabernacle  that  night  she  looked  care- 
fully at  all  the  faces  within  her  range,  hoping  that  she 
might  find  him  among  those  present.  But  he  was  not 
there,  and  she  was  disappointed. 

She  awoke  earlier  than  usual  the  next  morning  and 
discovered  that  her  mind  was  again  on  the  man.  After 
breakfast,  when  her  mother  and  father  had  both  gone 
away,  she  went  into  the  library  and  began  reading  a 
travel  book. 

She  had  read  only  a  short  time  when  some  impulse 
made  her  go  to  the  window  and  look  out.  She  did  not 
understand  the  impulse,  and  although  she  was  filled  with 
some  abstract  expectancy,  her  emotions  were  vague  and 
indefinite.  It  was  with  a  little  start  of  pleasant  surprise 
that  she  saw  Macy  outside,  walking  briskly  toward  the 
house. 

"Are  you  expecting  some  one?"  came  the  voice  of  the 
Woman  behind  her. 

The  girl  was  startled,  and  looked  around  quickly. 
"No;  what  makes  you  ask?" 

The  Woman  did  not  reply  and  Elizabeth  turned  again 
to  the  window. 

Macy  caught  sight  of  her  and  waved  to  her  pleasantly 
as  he  turned  up  the  walk  which  led  to  her  home. 

"You  had  better  open  the  door  for  Mr.  Macy,"  she 
said  to  the  Woman. 

"Then  you  were  expecting  some  one." 

183 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

"What  impertinence !"  the  girl  exclaimed  angrily.  "Go 
to  the  door." 

The  Woman  obeyed  sadly;  and  in  another  moment 
Macy  had  entered. 

The  Woman  went  out. 

"Good  morning,  Miss  Bradshaw,"  the  man  greeted 
her,  with  exaggerated  amiability.  "You  know  I  told  you 
I  was  leaving  the  city  very  soon.  Well,  to-day  is  the 
day,  although  I  hadn't  imagined  it  would  really  be  quite 
so  soon.  ...  I  dropped  in  to  say  good-bye." 

His  words,  for  some  reason,  made  her  unhappy. 

"I'm  sorry  that  you  are  going,"  she  said. 

Then,  as  he  gazed  at  her  intently,  she  became  a  trifle 
embarrassed. 

"I  am  glad,  though,  that  you  came  to  say  good-bye," 
she  went  on  lightly.  "Won't  you  sit  down  ?  .  .  .  This  is 
a  surprise." 

The  man  seated  himself  without  taking  his  eyes  off  her. 
"A  pleasant  surprise?" 

"Of  course,"  Elizabeth  answered.  "But  hardly  a  sur- 
prise at  all.  .  .  .  Do  you  know,  something  told  me  you 
were  coming." 

"A  sort  of  presentiment  of  evil?"  he  asked. 

"Oh,  no,"  she  answered,  confused.  "But  it's  the  strang- 
est thing — I  was  reading  just  now,  and,  all  of  a  sudden, 
I  felt  that  you  were  near.  I  stepped  to  the  window — 
and  there  you  were!" 

The  man  smiled  at  her  ingenuousness. 

"Just  like  a  jumping- jack,"  he  said.  "You  press  the 
button — and  there  he  is!" 

The  girl  didn't  know  what  to  say  to  this,  so  she 
laughed. 

"Even  the  maid  noticed  it,"  she  added,  just  as  if  he 
184 


The  Moth  and  the  Flame 

had  made  no  facetious  interpolation.  "She  asked  me  if 
I  were  expecting  some  one." 

Macy  asked  her  if  he  might  smoke,  and,  being  given 
permission,  he  lighted  a  cigarette. 

"Well,"  he  asked,  after  he  had  taken  a  few  puffs,  "are 
we  going  to  be  friends?" 

"Surely  we  are,"  the  girl  answered,  in  an  unserious 
tone. 

"Good  friends?" 

"The  very  best." 

"Let's  shake  hands  on  it,"  the  man  laughed. 

The  girl  gave  him  her  hand,  and  he  took  it  warmly. 
But,  when  he  did  not  release  it,  she  forced  herself  to 
withdraw  it,  and  went  to  her  father's  desk,  where  she 
sat  down.  His  action  had  both  intrigued  and  frightened 
her. 

Macy  smoked  for  a  while  in  silence.  Then  his  manner 
became  serious. 

"Tell  me  something,"  he  said.  "How  can  you  bear  to 
live  in  this  detestable  town?" 

"That's  simple  enough,"  Elizabeth  answered.  "It's  not 
a  case  of  bearing,  it's  a  case  of  having  to.  .  .  .  It's  my 
home." 

"And  don't  you  ever  feel  that  you  would  like  to  get 
away  ?"  he  pursued.  "Doesn't  the  idea  ever  come  to  you 
of  how  pleasant  it  would  be  to  go  somewhere  else — to 
see  more  of  the  world?" 

"Does  it  ever  come  to  me!"  The  girl  frowned  and 
looked  away.  "It  never  leaves  me." 

"But  surely  you  have  travelled  some,"  said  the  man. 
"You  certainly  have  been  to  other  places  with  your 
people." 

"Oh,  yes,"  the  girl  answered,  without  any  enthusiasm. 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

"I've  travelled  a  little  with  mother  and  father.  I  went  to 
Chicago  once,  and  to  New  York,  and  even  to  New  Or- 
leans. .  .  .  But  trips  like  that  only  make  things  worse/' 
she  added  gloomily.  "New  York  seemed  like  Heaven 
to  me;  but  we  were  only  there  a  few  days.  I  never 
wanted  to  leave  it.  After  New  York,  Edenburg  seemed 
like  a  village." 

"I  can't  imagine,"  Macy  remarked,  "what  the  people 
in  Edenburg  find  to  do  all  the  time.  Where  on  earth  do 
they  keep  themselves?  Although  I've  lived  here  a  long 
time,  I  know  very  few  people.  I  don't  go  about 
much." 

"They  keep  themselves  home  mostly,  I  presume." 
There  was  disparagement  in  the  girl's  voice.  "And  Sun- 
days they  always  go  to  church." 

Macy  regarded  her  appraisingly. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said,  drawing  his  chair  nearer  to  her, 
"would  you  like  to  get  away  from  this  place?  Would 
you  like  to  go  out  and  see  the  world  and  be  free  and 
have  a  good  time,  and  maybe  never  set  foot  in  Edenburg 
again?" 

"Would  I!"  she  smiled,  with  a  touch  of  happy  cyni- 
cism. "I'd  like  to  have  some  one  give  me  a  chance." 

Macy  stood  up. 

"You  poor  child!"  he  exclaimed. 

He  hesitated  a  moment ;  then  he  said  resolutely :  "I'm 
going  to  give  you  a  chance." 

The  girl  was  startled.  She  looked  at  him  wonderingly, 
fearing  and  hoping  at  the  same  time  that  he  was  able  to 
do  what  he  promised. 

"You  are  going  to  give  me  a  chance  ?"  she  asked  slowly. 
"How?" 

"I'm  going  to  make  it  possible  for  you  to  go  away." 
186 


The  Moth  and  the  Flame 

He  threw  away  his  cigarette  and  leaned  toward  her, 
clasping  his  hands  behind  his  back. 

"To  go  away?    But  how?    With  whom?" 

"With  me." 

She  was  now  thoroughly  frightened,  but  she  forced 
herself  to  laugh,  pretending  that  his  words  had  been  a 
huge  joke  which,  by  no  possible  stretch  of  the  imagina- 
tion, could  be  taken  seriously. 

"You  will  come?"  the  man  persisted,  ignoring  her 
laughter. 

"How  funny!"  She  half  believed  that,  after  all,  he 
was  joking.  "An  elopement  you  mean?" 

Macy  came  nearer  to  her. 

"Just  that,"  he  said  gravely. 

Elizabeth  resolved  to  treat  his  words  lightly,  like  some 
game  in  which  the  imagination  plays  the  largest  part. 

"But  in  elopements  they  marry,  don't  they?"  she  asked, 
as  one  who  would  ask  questions  about  a  fairy  tale. 

The  man  refused  to  meet  her  mood. 

"Of  course,"  he  agreed  seriously. 

"Then  this  is  a  proposal !"  she  exclaimed,  with  childish 
delight,  still  keeping  up  the  spirit  of  an  impossible  and 
fantastic  game,  though  all  the  while  she  felt  that  she  was 
defending  herself  from  some  impending  danger. 

"Yes,"  the  man  agreed  soberly,  in  a  low  voice.  "This 
is  a  proposal."  He  looked  at  her  smiling  face,  and 
added  fervently:  "A  real  one." 

The  girl  became  nervous,  but  she  forced  herself  to 
retain  her  air  of  levity. 

"I  know  you  are  joking,"  she  said  with  a  laugh,  "but — 
do  you  know  ? — I  have  a  good  notion  to  take  you  at  your 
word — just  to  see  what  you  will  say." 

Macy  came  very  close  to  her.    "I  dare  you !" 

187 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

Elizabeth  was  unable  to  continue  in  her  former  strain. 
The  man's  tenseness  and  gravity  began  to  tell  on  her 
emotions. 

"You  are  really  in  earnest  ?"  she  asked ;  and  her  man- 
ner was  no  longer  frivolous. 

"Of  course  I'm  in  earnest,"  he  assured  her.  "I  was 
never  more  in  earnest  in  my  life ;  and  I  want  you  to  come 
with  me.  .  .  .  You  are  going  to  come,  because  you  mean 
everything  in  the  world  to  me,  because  I  love  you." 

"You're  in  love  with  me!"  Her  words,  scarcely  audi- 
ble, were  filled  with  wonderment  and  alarm. 

"You  know  I  am  in  love  with  you,"  he  told  her.  "You 
have  known  it  from  the  first.  Why  do  you  try  to  deceive 
me — and  yourself  ?  I've  thought  of  nothing  but  you  since 
the  day  we  rode  into  the  country.  Why  cheat  yourself 
out  of  life  and  all  the  things  that  you  deserve?  Why 
stay  here  in  Edenburg,  when  the  whole  world  is  waiting 
for  you  and  me?  If  I  didn't  have  to  go  away  at  once, 
I  would  wait  and  tell  you  these  things  later,  when  they 
wouldn't  frighten  you — when  you  had  gotten  used  to  me. 
But  I  can't  wait — it  is  now  or  never.  .  .  .  You  must  un- 
derstand. .  .  .  Will  you  come?" 

The  girl  had  been  struggling  with  her  emotions  during 
his  speech.  She  liked  him,  and  secretly  his  words  thrilled 
her.  But  she  thought  of  her  mother  and  father,  of  her 
home  and  its  strictness.  What  he  proposed  was  so  alien 
to  the  very  fabric  of  her  life.  It  was  too  big  for  her  to 
grasp;  but  she  felt  its  enormity  and  importance.  She 
was  afraid  to  face  it.  Her  training  had  not  prepared  her 
for  this  step.  And  yet,  she  knew  she  could  not  argue 
with  the  man,  for  she  wanted  to  go — if  only  she  dare. 

She  sat  for  some  time  trying  to  think  of  an  answer,  of 
some  way  to  refuse  him.  His  eyes  were  on  her,  watching 
188 


The  Moth  and  the  Flame 

her  closely  and  eagerly;  and  she  felt  his  fascination. 
Then,  when  she  could  find  no  adequate  reply,  she  in- 
stinctively fell  back  on  her  old  defence  of  bantering 
lightness. 

She  made  herself  laugh. 

"Of  course,  I'll  not  go  with  you.  How  absurd !"  Her 
external  mood  was  frivolous  again.  "What  a  silly  thing 
to  suggest.  .  .  ." 

But  when  the  man  did  not  take  his  eyes  from  her  or 
change  his  expression,  she  was  unable  to  retain  the  ar- 
tificiality of  her  pose. 

"And  yet,"  she  went  on,  in  a  more  serious  voice,  "do 
you  know,  I  have  another  strange  presentiment  that  I 
shall  do  the  very  thing  you  ask  me  ?" 

"I  knew  you  would,  all  the  time,"  Macy  answered  con- 
fidently. 

He  stepped  quickly  toward  her  and  reached  out  his 
arms  for  her ;  but  she  leapt  to  her  feet  and  stepped  away 
from  him. 

"Don't — please  don't,"  she  begged  in  fright.  "You  see, 
my  presentiment  has  not  told  me  whether  /  love  you  or 
not." 

The  man  was  not  discouraged.  "But  it  will  tell  you. 
.  .  .  Why  do  you  try  to  avoid  me?  Why  do  you  lie  to 
yourself?  I  know  that  you  love  me — and  you  know  it, 
too.  .  .  .  And  you  are  going  with  me,"  he  repeated 
firmly. 

He  watched  to  see  how  his  words  would  effect  her. 
She  did  not  answer,  but  stood  with  her  head  bowed. 
He  now  went  to  her  softly  and  put  his  arms  around  her. 
She  no  longer  resisted. 

"Where  shall  we  meet,  sweetheart  ?"  he  asked  tenderly. 

"Am  I  going — really  ?"  she  whispered. 

189 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

"Of  course,  you  are  going,"  he  told  her  gently.  "We'll 
take  the  Limited  this  afternoon,  and  in  two  days  we'll 
be  on  the  boat  sailing  for  Europe." 

She  let'  him  kiss  her,  and  he  held  her  close  in  his  arms 
for  a  long  time. 

"But  you  have  forgotten  the  most  important  part — 
our  marriage,"  she  told  him. 

He  held  her  at  arm's  length. 

"You  foolish  girl,  we  shall  be  married  to-night.  If  we 
should  be  married  here  it  would  be  found  out.  Your 
father  would  know  about  it,  and  he  would  stop  us.  Once 
we  are  away,  everything  will  be  safe." 

"I  don't  see  why  I  should  let  you  do  this,"  the  girl  per- 
sisted. "But  somehow,  when  I  am  with  you,  I  seem  to 
lose  my  self-control.  ...  I  never  felt  this  way  before. 
.  .  .  What  can  it  be?" 

"My  dear,"  said  the  man,  "it's  the  sweetest  thing  in  fh* 
world — it's  love." 

"I'm  not  so  sure.  .  .  .  Oh,  Arnold,  I'm  so  afraid!" 

"Of  me?"  he  asked,  in  pained  surprise. 

"Yes,  of  you,  dear,"  she  answered.  "And  of  myself. 
It  isn't  that  I  don't  trust  you— but  still,  I'm  afraid.  It 
would  kill  my  mother.  And  father " 

"But  what  right  have  they  to  interfere,"  Macy  asked 
her,  a  little  angrily,  "when  your  happiness  is  at  stake?" 

"None,  I  suppose,"  she  answered  weakly.  "But  I  know 
nothing  about  you.  It  is  all  so  strange,  and  so  sudden." 

The  man  smiled  confidently. 

"Well,  look  at  me,"  he  said  lightly.  "I'm  fairly  pre- 
possessing— don't  you  think  so?  My  family's  one  of  the 
oldest  in  Manchester;  and,  as  for  money " 

"Arnold!  You  know  I  don't  mean  that,"  Elizabeth 
reprimanded  sweetly.  "I  mean  about  yourself,  your  life, 
190 


The  Moth  and  the  Flame 

your  love  affairs.  .  .  .  Oh,  I'm  not  silly  enough  to  think 
you  haven't  had  them." 

They  were  sitting  close  to  each  other  on  a  davenport, 
her  hand  held  in  his  tightly.  The  man  looked  away  and 
frowned  slightly. 

"Why,  yes,  of  course  I've  had  love  affairs.  I  won't 
try  to  deceive  you  about  that.  But  there  have  been  no 
real  ones.  .  .  .  And  what  of  you?"  He  tried  to  put  the 
girl  on  the  defensive. 

"You  know  well  enough  what  my  life  has  been  in  this 
cloister,"  she  replied,  in  an  injured  tone. 

"But  you  have  had  Bellamy,"  the  man  suggested.  "You 
loved  him,  didn't  you?" 

"I  thought  so,  until  you  came,"  she  said,  suddenly 
remembering. 

For  the  last  two  days  she  had  forgotten  the  other  man 
and  his  love  for  her.  She  had,  however,  never  taken 
that  love  seriously;  and  when  he  had  told  her  that  her 
father  had  refused  to  let  her  marry  him,  she  had  dis- 
missed the  matter  from  her  mind. 

"Then  you  will  come,  won't  you,  dear?  The  man  had 
seen  the  troubled  look  on  her  face  at  the  mention  of 
Bellamy,  and  wished  to  be  reassured. 

"Yes,"  she  said  firmly,  as  if  her  first  conscious  decision 
had  just  been  made.  "I'll  come  to  escape  from  Eden- 
burg,  to  escape  from  myself.  If  it  is  to  be,  the  sooner 
the  better." 

Macy  arose. 

"I  shall  be  waiting  for  you,"  he  said. 

He  took  her  in  his  arms  again  and  pressed  her  lips  to 
his. 

When  he  had  released  her,  she  suddenly  covered  her 
face  with  her  hands. 

191 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

"How  can  I  ever  break  it  to  my  mother  ?"  she  said,  with 
a  slight  sob. 

"We'll  write  to  her,"  the  man  returned  quickly.  "Or 
better  still,  you  leave  a  note  to  be  delivered  to  her  after 
we  are  safely  away.  Will  you  do  that?" 

"Yes,"  she  replied  with  resolution.  Then  she  added  in 
a  broken  voice :  "It  will  be  terrible — but  I'll  do  it." 

"Good !"  The  man  looked  at  his  watch.  "It's  almost 
ten  o'clock,"  he  said.  "You  had  better  go  and  get  ready. 
At  exactly  four  o'clock  leave  the  house  and  walk  to  the 
corner.  I  will  be  waiting  for  you  there  in  an  auto.  We 
will  just  be  in  time  to  catch  the  Limited  from  the  West." 

Still  the  girl  hesitated.  "But  father  will  follow  us.  I 
think  he  would  kill  us  both  if  he  caught  us." 

"Let  him  follow,"  Macy  said  reassuringly.  "He  will 
never  get  us.  He  won't  know  where  we  have  gone ;  and 
once  on  board  the  boat,  we  can  laugh  at  all  of  them." 

"I'll  go,"  breathed  the  girl. 

She  rang  the  bell,  and  the  Woman  answered. 

"Get  Mr.  Macy's  hat  and  coat,"  she  said. 

The  Woman  said  nothing,  but  walked  into  the  hallway, 
followed  by  the  man,  as  Elizabeth  ran  upstairs. 

In  the  hallway  the  Woman  turned  and  looked  at  Macy 
accusingly,  without  a  word. 

"By  Jove,  where  have  I  seen  you  before!"  he  ex- 
claimed, as  he  met  her  eyes. 

"In  Paris,  perhaps,"  she  answered  insinuatingly.  "Or 
Berlin.  Or  Moscow." 

Macy  gave  a  troubled  laugh.    "Now  you're  joking." 

"No,  indeed,"  the  Woman  replied.  "I  am  not  joking. 
You  see,  I  have  travelled  a  great  deal;  so  it  is  possible 
that  we  have  met  before." 

Macy  studied  her  a  moment. 
192 


The  Moth  and  the  Flame 

"It  is  hardly  probable,"  he  said  stiffly.  "But  your  eyes 
do  look  deucedly  familiar,  somehow.  .  .  .  Please  give  me 
my  things;  I  must  be  off." 

The  Woman  took  down  his  hat  and  coat,  but  did  not 
hand  them  to  him.  Instead  she  looked  at  him  question- 
ing^. 

"When  is  she  going  ?"  There  was  a  hidden  accusation 
in  her  query. 

Macy  started  a  little,  but  did  not  reply. 

"When  is  she  going?"  the  Woman  repeated.  "Is  it 
to-day,  or  to-morrow?" 

The  man  gritted  his  teeth. 

"You  have  overheard — you  eavesdropping  devil!  I 
have  a  good  mind  to "  He  stepped  toward  her  men- 
acingly. 

The  Woman  was  unmoved.  "Poor  girl !  She  doesn't 
know." 

The  man's  face  paled. 

"Know — about  what  ?"    He  tried  to  be  indifferent. 

"About  your  wife  in  Southampton,"  the  Woman  said 
softly. 

At  these  words  Macy  lost  his  self-control. 

"Shh !"  he  warned  her  excitedly.  "How  did  you  know 
that?" 

"I  told  you  it  is  likely  that  we  have  met  before."  The 
Woman's  voice  was  serene. 

"It's  a  lie !"  the  man  said,  his  lips  twitching  spasmodic- 
ally. "I  have  no  wife." 

The  other  laughed  lightly. 

Macy  scrutinised  her.  Then,  seeing  that  deception 
was  hopeless,  he  changed  his  manner. 

"Now,  see  here,"  he  asked  earnestly.  "Are  you  going 
to  give  me  away  or  not?" 

193 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

The  Woman  shook  her  head  hopelessly. 

"What  would  be  the  use?"  she,  in  return,  asked.  "If 
it  is  fate  that  she  is  to  go  away,  she  will  go.  Nothing 
can  stop  her.  Every  one  must  pass  through  fire.  Every- 
thing that  is  to  happen  in  the  world,  must  happen.  Even 
I  cannot  change  that.  .  .  .  Poor  girl!" 

The  man  was  puzzled,  and  looked  at  the  Woman  more 
sharply. 

"I  see  you  are  the  right  sort,  after  all,"  he  stammered. 
"See  here,  did  you  say  you  saw  me  in  Paris?" 

"I  said  I  was  in  Paris,"  the  Woman  answered. 

"How  long  ago?" 

She  reflected  a  moment. 

"Was  it  five  years  ago  ?"  she  asked,  as  if  uncertain. 

The  man  started  a  little. 

"By  Jove,  that's  strange!"  he  said.  "There's  some- 
thing about  you  that  reminds  me  of " 

"The  little  girl  you  deserted  in  St.  Cloud?"  she  fin- 
ished. 

"My  God!  How  did  you  know  that?"  Macy's  voice 
was  frightened,  and  his  body  trembled  perceptibly. 
"Who — are — you?"  he  asked,  in  a  hoarse  whisper. 

"An  old  friend,  and  your  very  humble  servant,"  an- 
swered the  Woman. 

She  handed  him  his  hat  and  coat,  which  he  accepted, 
as  in  a  daze. 

"And  you  are  not  going  to  tell?"  he  asked  incred- 
ulously. "On  your  honour?" 

"On  my  honour,"  she  said. 

Macy's  lips  moved,  but  no  sound  came  from  them. 
With  a  last  close  look  at  the  Woman  he  turned  and  went 
out. 


194 


CHAPTER  XII 

THE  BLACK  DAYS 

WHEN  Elizabeth  reached  her  room  she  sat  down 
and  cried  for  a  half  hour.  She  was  not  un- 
happy, but  apprehensive.  In  her  tears  there  was  no  weak- 
ening of  her  determination  to  go  away.  She  did  not 
know  what  it  was  that  made  her  cry :  her  emotions  were 
too  confused.  The  coming  event  was  all  so  wonderful; 
yet,  at  the  same  time,  it  was  terrible  and  tragic.  In- 
stinctively she  knew  she  was  doing  wrong,  but  her  desire 
for  a  change  was  stronger  than  her  conscience.  She  told 
herself  that  she  was  going  to  be  happy,  that  she  was  in 
love  with  Arnold  Macy,  that  she  had  a  right  to  break 
the  manacles  which  bound  her  to  the  quiet  and  unevent- 
ful life  of  Edenburg.  She  recalled  Macy's  words  to  her, 
and  they  gave  her  strength. 

She  knew  her  life  had  been  drab  and  filled  with  dep- 
rivation. Inwardly  she  had  always  revolted  against  it; 
and  yet,  as  she  looked  round  her,  the  little  white  bedroom 
seemed  suddenly  to  have  become  very  dear  to  her.  The 
brass  bed  with  its  pale  blue  satin  canopy  and  its  lace  cov- 
ering, the  French  windows  through  which  filtered  the 
sunshine,  the  low  dressing-table  with  its  swinging  mir- 
rors and  its  neatly  arranged  silver  toilet  set  which  her 
brother  had  given  her  on  her  sixteenth  birthday,  the 
quaint  Watteau  prints  with  their  curious  little  gold 
frames,  the  great  soft  blue  rug,  the  bookcase  with  her 

195 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

own  books — all  these  things  seemed  to  be  interwoven  into 
her  life  and  dreams.  They  were  an  intimate  part  of  her 
earliest  memories.  But  not  until  to-day  did  she  realise 
the  sweetness  of  their  associations. 

Now  that  she  was  about  to  leave  them  all,  she  knew 
for  the  first  time  how  much  they  meant  to  her.  She 
would  have  been  happier  if  she  could  have  taken  them 
all  with  her,  and  already  she,  began  wondering  if,  per- 
haps, later  on,  her  father  would  not  forgive  her  and  let 
her  come  back  to  them.  She  knew  there  was  little  chance 
of  this,  once  she  had  taken  the  step;  but  she  could  not 
rid  herself  of  the  longing  and  attachment  for  the  familiar 
objects  in  the  room. 

She  did  not  regret  leaving  her  father.  He  was  hard 
and  cold,  and  his  demands  on  her  had  always  seemed 
unreasonable.  Though  she  loved  him,  it  was  with  a  love 
in  which  her  respect  for  his  authority  played  a  large 
part.  Only  at  times  had  she  felt  tender  toward  him,  and, 
strangely  enough,  this  was  not  one  of  the  times.  She 
asked  herself  why  it  should  be  necessary  to  run  away 
with  Macy.  Why  could  she  not  have  gone  to  her  father 
and  received  his  consent?  Surely  she  was  no  longer  a 
little  girl.  But  she  knew  from  past  experience  that  such 
a  request  would  have  been  fatal.  He  would  have  told 
her  that  she  was  too  young  to  consider  marriage;  he 
would  have  become  infuriated  at  the  mere  suggestion 
of  it. 

But,  when  she  thought  of  her  mother,  her  feelings 
were  different.  Martha  Bradshaw  had  always  been  ten- 
der and  generous.  There  was  a  close  bond  between  the 
girl  and  the  older  woman — a  bond  of  sympathy  and 
understanding.  Elizabeth  looked  at  her  mother's  picture, 
which  she  always  kept  on  her  desk  in  a  little  silver  frame, 
196 


The  Black  Days 

and  the  hot  tears  started  to  her  eyes  afresh.  She  knew 
her  act  would  break  her  mother's  heart,  and  she  knew, 
too,  that  the  other  woman  was  not  strong  and  would 
suffer  intensely.  But  even  this  knowledge  did  not  deter 
her  from  carrying  out  her  plan.  Her  desire  for  free- 
dom, and  for  the  splendid  adventures  which  lay  beyond 
Edenburg,  was  the  strongest  dictate  in  her  heart.  She 
tried  to  seek  comfort  by  telling  herself  that  her  mother 
would  understand  and  forgiye  her,  though,  in  the  very 
process  of  this  self-assurance,  she  realised  that  she  was 
seeking  solace  in  sophistry.  But  she  hoped,  despite  her 
own  inner  conviction,  that  her  mother's  suffering  would 
not  be  so  great  as  she  feared. 

She  brushed  her  tears  away,  and  went  to  the  window. 
For  a  long  time  she  stood  looking  out  into  the  barren 
street.  It  was  cold  and  desolate,  although  the  sun  was 
shining.  A  young  man  and  a  girl,  both  of  whom  she 
knew,  passed  by,  laughing  and  talking.  She  looked  at 
them  with  envy.  They  caught  sight  of  her,  and  waved 
pleasantly.  Their  presence  had  a  strengthening  effect 
on  the  girl  at  the  window,  for  it  intensified  her  resent- 
ment against  the  austerity  of  her  father's  prescriptions. 
She  had  never  been  allowed  to  walk  the  streets  alone 
with  the  young  men  of  the  city;  and  the  fact  that  this 
other  girl  was  doing  it  now,  set  in  motion  within  her  a 
wave  of  indignation  at  her  father's  rigid  and  dictatorial 
supervision. 

She  turned  again  to  the  room,  and  began  to  get  ready 
for  her  first  great  adventure.  From  the  closet  she  took 
a  little  hand-bag  into  which  she  put  the  few  articles  she 
would  need.  She  knew  she  could  not  take  any  clothes 
with  her — there  would  not  be  room.  For  an  hour  she 
packed  and  repacked  her  things,  changing  one  article  for 

197 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

another  as  she  projected  her  imagination  into  the  future 
and  tried  to  determine  the  things  she  had  to  have  and 
the  things  she  could  do  without. 

All  the  while  she  was  becoming  more  and  more  intoxi- 
cated with  the  idea  of  her  elopement ;  and  when,  at  last, 
she  had  closed  the  bag  and  locked  it,  she  was  trembling 
with  excitement.  She  started  to  change  the  house-dress 
she  was  wearing  for  a  suit  in  which  to  travel ;  but  she 
thought  it  would  create  suspicion  if  her  mother  should 
come  home  to  lunch,  and  she  decided  to  wait. 

Her  mother  did  not  come  home,  however.  The  girl 
ate  alone.  She  was  glad  of  this,  for  she  shrank  from 
seeing  her  mother  again  before  going  away.  She  felt 
she  might  weaken  in  the  other's  presence.  She  ate  little, 
for  she  was  too  nervous.  Her  cheeks  burned  with  ex- 
citement, and  she  could  hardly  wait  for  the  hour  when 
she  would  step  forth  from  her  lonely  and  shut-in  exist- 
ence into  that  world  of  freedom  and  romance  which 
Macy  had  held  out  to  her. 

Throughout  the  meal  she  was  conscious  of  the  Wom- 
an's eyes  on  her.  They  made  her  restless  and  uneasy. 
Her  feeling  of  guilt  was  such  that  she  imagined  the 
Woman  suspected  something — perhaps  this  servant  had 
overheard  Macy's  words  and  her  own  promise  to  meet 
him  at  four  o'clock.  But,  again  in  her  room,  she  dis- 
missed these  suspicions  as  an  impossibility. 

The  hours  went  slowly  until  the  time  when  she  was  to 
steal  forth  and  meet  the  man  who  would  be  awaiting 
her.  She  tried  to  read,  but  the  words  became  a  jumble 
before  her  eyes,  and  she  could  not  keep  her  mind  on  the 
printed  page.  Every  little  commonplace  noise  in  the 
house  startled  her.  Once,  when  Otto  came  to  deliver 
her  a  letter  from  a  relative,  she  trembled  so  she  could 
198 


The  Black  Days 


hardly  hold  it.  She  watched  the  clock  constantly,  and, 
whenever  she  heard  a  footstep  on  the  street  beneath  her 
window,  she  looked  out  guardedly,  fearing  it  might  be 
her  mother  or  father. 

When  there  were  but  fifteen  minutes  before  she  was 
due  to  go,  she  remembered  that  she  had  not  written  the 
note  she  was  to  leave  behind.  Going  to  her  desk  she  sat 
down  and  drew  a  piece  of  paper  in  front  of  her.  A  mist 
of  tears  filled  her  eyes  as  she  began  to  write.  Before  she 
had  finished  she  was  sobbing  brokenly.  Now,  at  the 
very  moment  of  departure,  she  felt  her  strength  give  way 
and  her  will  weaken.  As  she  had  finished  writing,  her 
head  fell  forward  on  her  arm ;  and  for  five  minutes  she 
wept  bitterly.  The  reaction  past,  she  raised  up  again 
and  brushed  her  tears  away.  She  looked  down  at  the 
letter  and  reread  it. 

"Dearest,  dearest  mother,"  it  ran.  "Please  try  to  for- 
give me  for  what  I  am  going  to  do.  I  don't  want  you 
to  suffer,  and  if  you  will  try  to  understand,  I  know  it 
will  not  seem  so  terrible  to  you.  I  am  going  away. 
When  you  get  this  note  I  will  be  on  my  way,  and  you 
will  not  be  able  to  find  me.  I  am  going  with  Mr.  Macy. 
He  loves  me,  and  I  love  him.  I  can't  stand  it  here  any 
longer.  In  a  short  time  we  will  be  in  Europe.  I  know 
I  am  going  to  be  happy,  and  I  want  you  to  be  happy,  too. 
That  you  will  forgive  me  will  always  be  the  prayer  of 
your  loving  daughter — Elizabeth." 

The  girl  looked  up  at  her  mother's  picture,  which  stood 
facing  her.  She  took  it  down  and  kissed  it.  Then  she 
unlocked  her  bag  and  put  the  picture  inside.  It  lacked 
only  a  few  minutes  of  being  four  o'clock.  Going  back 
to  her  desk,  she  folded  the  letter  hurriedly  and  placed  it 
in  an  envelope. 

199 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

At  that  moment  the  door  opened,  and  the  Woman  en- 
tered. She  stood  with  one  hand  on  the  knob,  looking  at 
the  girl  sorrowfully  and  pityingly. 

Elizabeth  jumped  to  her  feet,  startled  and  frightened, 
holding  the  letter  behind  her. 

"Oh,  it's  you,  is  it !"  she  exclaimed  in  surprised  anger. 
"Spying  on  me  as  usual!" 

"I  am  not  spying,"  the  Woman  answered  gently.  "You 
wanted  me,  didn't  you?" 

"No,  I  didn't  want  you!  When  I  want  you,  I'll  ring 
for  you." 

"I  was  sure  you  wanted  me,"  the  other  persisted,  with- 
out moving. 

The  girl  looked  at  her,  wondering.  Could  it  be  that 
this  woman  suspected  something?  Why  should  she  have 
come  just  at  four  o'clock? 

"What  made  you  think  I  wanted  you?"  Elizabeth 
asked  her  cautiously. 

"I  felt  that  you  did."  She  remained  at  the  door,  mo- 
tionless. 

"Was— that  all  ?"  The  girl  still  feared  that  her  secret 
had  been  overheard. 

The  Woman  nodded. 

"Well,  since  you  are  here,"  the  other  said  hesitatingly, 
"you  may  give  this  note  to  my  mother — to-night  after 
dinner." 

"You  see,  you  did  want  me,  after  all,"  the  Woman 
said,  taking  the  note. 

"Give  this  note  to  my  mother  as  I  directed  you — 
to-night,  when  she  has  finished  dinner.  Not  a  minute 
before.  You  understand?" 

"I  understand  perfectly,"  replied  the  Woman.    "Will 
you  be  safely  away  by  then?" 
200 


The  Black  Days 

"Who  told  you  I  was  going  away?"  asked  the  girl, 
taken  off  her  guard. 

"No  one  told  me,"  the  Woman  answered  sadly.  "Nor 
did  I  listen  to  anything  he  said  to  you.  Only,  I  felt  that 
you  were  going  away." 

"Well,  I'm  not,"  asserted  Elizabeth  resentfully.  "That 
note  is — something  else." 

"You  need  have  no  fear,"  the  other  told  her  comfort- 
ingly. "I  shall  tell  no  one.  It  would  do  no  good.  But 
I  know  you  are  going — oh,  you  needn't  take  the  trouble 
to  deny  it.  I  know  a  great  many  things,  but  there  is 
nothing  I  can  do  about  them.  I  must  wait.  The  time 
may  come  some  day.  ...  It  will  be  hard  on  your  mother 
— your  going." 

The  girl  was  perplexed.  She  would  have  insisted  in 
her  denials,  but  she  felt  that  they  would  be  futile.  She 
decided  to  ignore  the  other's  remarks. 

"All  you  have  to  do,"  she  said,  "is  to  give  that  note  to 
my  mother,  as  I  told  you  to.  You  are  sure  you  will  do 
that?" 

"I  will  give  it  to  her  as  you  have  directed  me,"  the 
Woman  responded.  "Not  a  minute  before." 

"Thank  you.    That  is  all." 

The  Woman  went  out,  leaving  the  door  open. 

Elizabeth  waited  until  the  Woman's  footsteps  had  died 
away  at  the  far  end  of  the  hall  below.  She  slipped  on 
her  coat  and  hat,  put  on  her  gloves,  and,  going  to  the 
door,  listened  intently.  Everything  was  quiet.  The  serv- 
ants were  all  in  the  rear  of  the  house.  She  looked  once 
more  at  the  little  intimate  room  which  she  was  leaving 
forever.  ...  It  was  neither  a  sob  nor  a  moan  that 
escaped  her  lips,  but  it  was  something  between  the 
two. 

201 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

She  walked  very  quietly  down  the  carpeted  stairs, 
pausing  every  few  steps  to  make  sure  that  she  was  not 
being  observed.  Cautiously  she  opened  the  front  door 
and  let  herself  out.  The  chill  air  sent  a  shiver  through 
her  feverish  body,  but  at  the  same  time  it  braced  her  and 
gave  her  new  strength.  She  hurried  across  the  lawn, 
turned  at  the  street,  and  half  ran  toward  the  corner 
where  she  was  to  meet  Macy.  She  kept  on  the  edge  of 
the  yards  so  that  her  feet  would  make  no  noise  on  the 
pavements.  She  was  out  of  breath  when  she  reached  the 
machine  which  was  waiting  for  her  a  little  way  off  the 
main  street. 

Macy  jumped  down  from  the  car  and  met  her,  taking 
her  bag  and  pressing  her  hand  fervently. 

"I'm  so  frightened,  Arnold !"  the  girl  said,  as  she  took 
her  seat  beside  him. 

The  man  laughed  derisively  and  triumphantly  as  he 
shot  away. 

"Nonsense,  child!"  he  told  her.  "Of  course  you  may 
feel  a  little  frightened  now,  but  once  we  are  safely  away, 
you  will  be  the  happiest  girl  in  the  world." 

"I  hope  so,"  she  breathed  sadly. 

The  train  was  at  the  station  when  they  arrived.  Macy 
had  the  tickets,  and  they  immediately  entered  the  private 
drawing-room  which  had  been  reserved  for  them.  The 
girl  was  pale  with  fright,  and  very  silent.  When  they 
were  alone  and  the  man  attempted  to  take  her  in  his  arms 
and  kiss  her,  she  drew  away  from  him,  though  she  did 
not  know  why.  Macy  smiled,  as  if  he  understood  her 
action,  and  did  not  urge  her. 

In  a  few  minutes  there  was  a  noisy  releasing  of  brakes, 
and  the  train  gave  a  little  jerk,  preparatory  to  moving 
out. 

202 


The  Black  Days 

The  girl  leapt  to  her  feet,  and  started  for  the  door. 

"I  can't  go — I  can't  go !  Oh,  do  let  me  get  off !"  she 
cried,  as  Macy  intercepted  her. 

"Sweetheart!"  he  said  reprovingly.  "Don't  be  a  fool- 
ish child.  Think  how  happy  we  are  going  to  be." 

She  wavered;  and  this  time  he  took  her  in  his  arms. 
She  became  suddenly  limp,  and  her  head  dropped  on  his 
shoulder.  She  cried,  broken-heartedly. 

Elijah  Bradshaw  did  not  return  home  until  just  before 
dinner  time,  and  his  wife,  too,  was  late.  She  had  spent 
a  busy  day,  and  her  work  had  detained  her. 

As  they  sat  down  to  table,  Bradshaw  said  irritably: 
"Why  isn't  Elizabeth  here?  She  certainly  could  hear 
the  gong." 

He  turned  to  Otto.  "Go  upstairs  and  tell  my  daughter 
to  come  down  at  once." 

The  man  left  the  room,  returning  in  a  few  moments. 

"She  is  not  upstairs,"  he  announced. 

"What!"  exclaimed  Bradshaw.    "She  must  be!" 

He  himself  arose  and  went  to  the  foot  of  the  stairs. 
He  called  his  daughter  by  name  several  times,  but  re- 
ceiving no  answer  he  returned  to  the  dining-room,  frown- 
ing deeply.  He  looked  at  his  wife.  Her  face  was  trou- 
bled, but  she  said  nothing. 

"Did  you  see  my  daughter  go  out?"  he  demanded  of 
the  servant. 

"No,  sir,"  the  man  replied.  "But  she  was  in  earlier 
this  afternoon." 

Bradshaw  sat  down  angrily. 

"She's  probably  out  with  some  of  these  young  run- 
abouts," he  commented,  as  if  to  himself.  "If  you'd  stay 
home  more,  Martha,"  he  said  to  his  wife,  "and  give  up 

203 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

this  silly  charity  work  of  yours,  a  thing  like  this  wouldn't 
happen." 

He  ate  a  moment  in  silence. 

"She'll  defy  me,  will  she!"  he  exclaimed  bitterly. 
"Well,  I'll  teach  her  a  lesson  about  staying  out!  She 
shan't  leave  her  room  for  a  week — and  she'll  eat  there, 
too." 

"It  may  be  all  right,"  his  wife  put  in  pleadingly. 
"Elizabeth's  not  a  bad  girl.  She  wouldn't  disobey  you 
deliberately.  She  may  have  gone  over  to  one  of  the 
neighbours,  and  forgotten  the  hour." 

There  was  little  conviction  in  Martha  Bradshaw's 
voice.  She  herself  was  worried  deeply,  but  she  tried  to 
keep  it  from  her  husband. 

"It  makes  no  difference,"  the  man  replied  imperturb- 
ably.  "She  has  no  business  running  around.  I've  told 
her  not  to  go  out  without  permission.  There  can  be  no 
excuse.  Mark  my  words :  She'll  regret  this  act." 

The  meal  proceeded  in  silence.  As  the  time  went  by 
Martha  Bradshaw  became  more  and  more  worried.  She 
ate  her  food  abstractedly,  glancing  constantly  at  the  clock. 
Bradshaw's  anger  grew  as  the  meal  progressed.  At  the 
sound  of  every  footstep  which  passed  in  the  street  he 
paused  and  listened  intently. 

At  eight  o'clock  he  went  into  the  library.  He  paced 
up  and  down,  his  wrath  growing  steadily.  His  wife  went 
in  to  him  and  tried  to  console  him,  at  the  same  time  de- 
fending her  daughter.  But  he  was  irritable,  holding  her 
blameworthy  for  Elizabeth's  absence.  She  saw  it  was  no 
use  to  endeavour  to  calm  him;  so  she  went  upstairs  to 
her  room. 

A  moment  later  the  Woman  passed  through  the  hall- 
way, quietly  and  with  bowed  head.  Slowly  she  mounted 
204 


The  Black  Days 


the  stairs  and  went  in  to  where  Martha  Bradshaw  sat 
looking  sorrowfully  out  of  the  window  into  the  dark- 
ness of  the  wide  street.  In  the  Woman's  eyes  was  great 
pity. 

"Here  is  a  note  your  daughter  asked  me  to  give  you." 

Eager  and  frightened,  the  seated  woman  turned  and 
took  it. 

"Why  didn't  you  give  it  to  me  sooner?"  she  asked. 

"Your  daughter  asked  me  to  hand  it  to  you  after  din- 
ner— not  a  moment  before." 

There  was  a  pathos  and  tenderness  in  her  voice,  which 
kept  the  mother  from  reprimanding  her  for  the  delay. 

The  Woman  hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  left  the 
room. 

Martha  Bradshaw  read  the  tear-stained  paper.  .  .  . 

A  sudden  convulsive  movement  shook  her  fragile  body. 
An  icy  hand  clutched  her  heart.  The  room  grew  black, 
and  the  whole  house  seemed  to  sway  drunkenly  and 
crash  about  her.  The  letter  fell  to  the  floor,  and  her 
hands  dropped  in  her  lap,  the  palms  up-turned,  the 
fingers  furled  rigidly.  In  a  moment  the  lights  flared  up 
again,  but  they  seemed  miles  and  miles  away,  and  not  a 
part  of  her  life.  She  tried  to  cry  out,  to  call  to  her  hus- 
band. But  no  sound  came  from  her  lips.  It  was  like  the 
terrible  mesmerism  of  a  nightmare.  She  attempted  to 
raise  her  hands,  but  could  not  move  them.  They  were 
like  some  one  else's  hands  over  which  she  had  no  control. 
The  Woman  came  to  the  door  again  and  spoke.  She 
could  see  and  hear  the  other,  but  could  make  no  sign. 

The  Woman  gasped  and  hurried  downstairs  to  the 
library. 

Elijah  Bradshaw  was  still  walking  up  and  down,  his 
hands  working  nervously  behind  him. 

205 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

"What  do  you  want?"  he  snapped,  before  the  Woman 
had  a  chance  to  speak.  "Go ;  I  want  to  be  alone." 

"Your  wife  needs  you,"  the  Woman  answered.  "You 
had  better  go  to  her  at  once." 

He  saw  by  the  look  on  her  face  that  something  was 
seriously  wrong.  He  did  not  hesitate,  but  went  quickly 
upstairs.  The  sight  of  Martha  Bradshaw  huddled  in  her 
chair — her  staring  eyes,  her  half-open  mouth,  the  gro- 
tesque attitude  of  her  hands — filled  him  with  horror. 

"Martha !"  he  called  huskily.    "What  is  it?" 

She  made  no  move,  and  the  man  hurried  toward  her, 
dropping  down  on  one  knee  and  taking  one  of  her  rigid 
hands  in  his. 

"Martha !  Martha !"  he  cried.  "My  God !  Speak  to 
me — for  God's  sake!" 

Still  the  woman  made  no  sign. 

Panic-stricken,  Bradshaw  arose  and  rushed  into  the 
hall.  The  Woman  stood  before  him,  waiting. 

"The  doctor!"  he  cried.  "Telephone  for  the  doctor." 
He  was  beside  himself.  His  face  was  ashen,  and  his 
eyes  glared  abnormally. 

The  Woman  hurried  below,  and  in  a  moment  he  heard 
her  talking  on  the  telephone. 

"This  is  Mr.  Bradshaw's  residence,"  the  voice  said. 
"Come  at  once.  It  is  imperative.  .  .  .  Mrs.  Bradshaw — 
a  stroke  of  paralysis,  I  think.  .  .  .  You  must  hurry." 

Bradshaw  returned  to  his  wife's  side.     "A  stroke  of 

paralysis "    The  words  went  through  him  like  shafts 

of  flame.  He  knew  his  wife  had  not  been  strong,  but  he 
could  not  understand  what  had  brought  about  this  sud- 
den collapse.  He  lifted  her  up  tenderly  and  placed  her 
on  the  bed,  placing  her  arms  at  her  side  and  straighten- 
ing out  her  sinister,  crooked  fingers. 
206 


The  Black  Days 

The  Woman  came  in  again,  and  her  appearance  com- 
forted the  man.  He  knew  now  that  he  needed  her,  and 
that  he  could  trust  her.  He  felt  his  dependence  on  her, 
and  was  glad  she  was  there. 

"There's  nothing  you  can  do  now,"  the  Woman  said. 
"You  had  better  go  downstairs  and  wait  for  the  doctor. 
I  will  take  care  of  your  wife  till  he  comes." 

He  obeyed  her  without  a  word. 

When  he  had  gone  the  Woman  very  tenderly  and 
lovingly  took  off  Martha  Bradshaw's  clothes,  drew  on 
her  nightdress  and  put  her  under  the  covers.  Then  she 
sat  down  and  waited. 

In  five  minutes  the  door  bell  rang.  Bradshaw  an- 
swered it  himself. 

"Come  in,"  he  said  to  the  doctor,  in  a  strained,  broken 
voice.  "Something  terrible  has  happened.  My  wife  has 
collapsed." 

Dr.  Stoner,  a  portly,  middle-aged  man,  with  a  com- 
petent, serene  face  and  a  close-cut  black  beard,  jerked 
off  his  coat  hurriedly  and  threw  it,  with  his  hat,  on  the 
chair.  He  did  not  reply  to  Bradshaw's  greeting. 

The  two  men  hurried  above.  As  they  entered  the  room 
the  Woman  arose  and  stood  to  one  side.  The  doctor 
leaned  over  the  bed  and  looked  at  the  helpless  figure, 
but  made  no  comment.  He  sat  down,  raised  her  lids 
and  for  a  moment  inspected  her  eyes.  Then  he  registered 
her  pulse,  lifted  her  arms,  moved  her  fingers  a  little,  and 
tested  her  reflexes. 

Bradshaw  watched,  transfixed  and  breathing  heavily. 
He  had  forgotten  about  his  daughter,  about  his  son,  about 
all  the  past  incidents  in  his  life.  His  every  interest  was 
now  deputised  to  the  tragedy  of  the  prostrate  form  on 
the  bed. 

207 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

The  doctor  turned  to  the  Woman,  as  naturally  as  if 
she  had  been  one  of  his  own  trained  nurses,  and  gave  her 
instructions  as  to  what  to  do.  Then  he  took  Bradshaw 
by  the  arm  and  led  him  downstairs.  In  the  library  he  sat 
down,  frowning. 

After  a  slight  pause  he  said — and  it  was  the  first  word 
he  had  spoken  to  the  other  man  since  his  arrival :  "Brad- 
shaw, you  must  prepare  yourself  for  bad  news.  Your 
wife  has  had  a  paralytic  stroke.  I  can't  account  for  it ; 
but  she  must  have  received  some  awful  shock  which 
suddenly  snapped  her  resistance." 

The  husband  was  white  and  trembling.  "You  mean — 
she  will  never  get  well  ?" 

"I  didn't  say  that,"  the  doctor  returned.  "But  her 
condition  is  serious.  She  must  be  looked  after  all  the 
time.  You  understand,  Mrs.  Bradshaw  was  a  weak 
woman,  and  a  shock  which  other  women  might  have 
withstood,  she  was  unable  to  cope  with.  She  will  get 
better,  I  can  assure  you  of  that.  She  may  partially  re- 
gain her  muscular  control.  A  great  deal  of  it,  I  am  in- 
clined to  think,  is  psychological.  If  her  mind  is  relieved 
of  this  thing  which  has  caused  her  collapse,  her  recovery 
is  possible.  I  do  not  know  what  it  is  that  has  brought 
about  her  state,  and  I  see  that  you  do  not  wish  to  tell 
me " 

"I  don't  know  what  it  is,"  Bradshaw  interrupted.  "I 
give  you  my  word,  I  don't  know.  My  wife  had  dinner 
with  me  to-night.  Afterward  she  went  upstairs.  I  was 
sitting  here  in  the  library,  and  one  of  the  servants  came  in 
and  told  me  to  go  to  her  at  once.  I  found  her  just  as 
you  see  her  now." 

"Well,  whatever  it  is,"  the  doctor  replied  sceptically, 
"the  fact  remains  that  the  tragedy  is  still  on  her  mind. 
208 


The  Black  Days 

And  as  long  as  it  is  there,  I  can  offer  you  little  hope." 

He  arose.  "I  will  be  in  to-morrow.  I  have  left  orders 
for  to-night.  Everything  that  can  be  done  will  be  done 
— you  know  that." 

When  he  had  gone  Elijah  Bradshaw  sat  at  his  desk, 
his  eyes  gazing  straight  ahead  of  him,  unseeing.  Why 
should  he  feel  guilty? — that  was  the  thought  that  tor- 
tured him.  His  mind  went  to  the  Woman.  Her  presence 
in  the  house  seemed  to  have  made  his  conscience  hyper- 
sensitive. Her  manner  was  always  accusing  toward  him. 
Her  words  had  aroused  in  him  a  sense  of  blame  for  all 
that  had  happened  to  him.  He  could  not  understand  it. 
He  had  never  felt  that  way  before.  But  how  could  he 
possibly  be  at  fault  in  regard  to  this  present  awful  catas- 
trophe ? 

An  hour  later  he  went  softly  to  his  wife's  room.  The 
light  was  very  low,  and  the  Woman  sat  at  the  edge  of 
the  bed. 

"She  is  resting,"  the  Woman  whispered.  "The  doctor 
left  something  to  make  her  sleep." 

He  looked  at  his  wife  without  replying,  and  going  to 
the  window,  sat  down  in  the  chair  in  which  he  had  found 
her  that  evening.  His  eyes  fell  on  the  letter  which  lay 
at  his  feet,  and  something  told  him  that  here  lay  the  ex- 
planation for  his  wife's  condition.  He  picked  up  the 
letter,  almost  afraid  to  touch  it. 

The  Woman  was  watching  him  closely. 

There  was  not  enough  light  in  the  room  for  him  to 
read  by,  and  he  took  the  paper  downstairs  into  the  library 
and  read  it. 

"The  curse  I"  he  exclaimed  aloud,  like  a  man  who  has 
been  victimised  by  black  magic.  "Good  God !" 

When  he  had  partially  recovered  from  the  uncanny 

209 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

fear  which  gripped  him,  a  terrible  rage  seized  him — a 
rage  directed  at  his  children,  at  the  son  who  had  dis- 
graced him,  at  the  daughter  who  had  run  away. 

In  his  grief  and  wrath  he  arose,  and  announced  fer- 
vently to  the  empty  room:  "They  shall  never  put 
foot  in  this  house  again.  They  shall  go  down  to  their 
graves  unforgiven.  To  think  that  I  should  have  brought 
into  the  world  a  thief  and  a  strumpet!  Henceforth,  I 
have  no  children!" 

He  raised  his  right  hand,  as  if  pronouncing  an  oath. 


210 


CHAPTER  XIII 

THE  GIRL  WHO  HAD  BEEN  PROTECTED 

^  I  AHE  next  morning  Bellamy  called  at  the  house  early. 
-*-  Otto  hesitated  before  announcing  him.  Bradshaw 
had  not  left  the  library  all  night.  He  had  sat  at  his  desk, 
his  head  in  his  arms.  The  old  servant  had  looked  in  on 
him  several  times,  and  finally,  long  past  midnight,  had 
entered  quietly  and  turned  out  the  lights.  Bradshaw  was 
still  sitting  at  his  desk  when  Bellamy  arrived. 

The  young  reporter  seemed  to  understand  the  serv- 
ant's hesitation. 

"Tell  him  who  it  is,  Otto,"  he  said.  "I'll  only  be  a 
minute.  If  he  doesn't  want  to  see  me,  I'll  go." 

Otto  went  into  the  library. 

"I'm  sorry  to  disturb  you,  sir,"  he  said,  as  the  seated 
man  moved  and  looked  up  inquiringly.  "Some  one  wants 
to  see  you — Mr.  Bellamy." 

For  a  moment  it  appeared  that  Bradshaw  had  not  un- 
derstood the  other's  words.  He  shook  himself  a  little 
and  sat  upright. 

"Bellamy?  Bellamy?"  he  repeated,  as  if  trying  to  re- 
call where  he  had  heard  the  name  before.  "Oh,  yes,"  he 
added,  when  his  mind  had  been  cleared  of  sleep.  "He's 
a  good  boy.  Let  him  come  in." 

The  young  man  entered. 

"Don't  get  up,  Mr.  Bradshaw,"  he  said.  "I  merely 
want  to  inquire  about  Mrs.  Bradshaw.  ...  I  met  Dr. 

211 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

Stoner  late  last  night,  and  he  told  me  she  was  ill.  I  didn't 
want  to  say  anything  about  it  in  the  paper,"  he  explained, 
"until  I  had  seen  you." 

"Of  course,  of  course,"  the  man  replied  wearily.  "You 
came  to  inquire  about  my  wife." 

He  paused  as  if  trying  to  collect  his  scattered  thoughts. 

"Yes,  Bellamy,"  he  went  on,  "she  is  very  ill — a  stroke 
of  paralysis.  It  was  very  sudden.  .  .  .  That's  all  you 
need  say  in  your  paper." 

"I'm  very  sorry,  sir,"  Bellamy  answered  earnestly. 
"My  deepest  sympathies." 

Another  matter  came  into  his  mind. 

"It  will  be  very  hard  on  your  daughter,"  he  remarked 
with  deep  sincerity. 

"My  daughter!"  Bradshaw  exclaimed  fiercely.  Then 
he  uttered  a  hoarse  laugh. 

"I  have  no  daughter!"  he  said. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  gasped  Bellamy.  "Where  is 
Elizabeth?" 

Bradshaw  suddenly  thought  of  his  position,  of  the 
scandal  and  disgrace  which  would  attach  to  his  name  if 
it  was  learned  of  his  daughter's  action. 

"I  don't  mean  what  I  was  saying,"  he  apologised,  sorry 
that  he  had  spoken  as  he  had.  "I  really  meant  nothing. 
I  had  a  terrible  night — I  am  all  unstrung  this  morn- 
ing." 

Bellamy  was  not  satisfied.  He  knew  by  the  older 
man's  words  and  look  that  something  was  wrong,  that 
there  was  an  attempt  to  hide  something. 

"Mr.    Bradshaw,"    he    said,    approaching   the    other, 

"something  has  happened  to  Elizabeth,  and  I  want  to 

know  what  it  is.     You  know  I  love  her,  and  whatever 

you  tell  me  will  be  a  sacred  confidence.  .  .  .  And  if  you 

212 


The  Girl  Who  Had  Been  Protected 

don't  tell  me,  I  shall  make  it  my  business  to  find  out." 

"No,  no !  You  mustn't  make  inquiries,"  Bradshaw  re- 
plied, frightened.  "That  wouldn't  do." 

"Then  you  must  tell  me  at  once." 

The  seated  man  looked  at  Bellamy.  There  was  some- 
thing in  the  younger  man  that  inspired  trust.  Bradshaw 
was  afraid,  too,  that  the  reporter  would  stir  matters  up 
unpleasantly,  and  that  after  his  own  inadvertent  remarks 
the  truth  would  come  out.  This,  he  had  decided,  must 
never  happen.  The  outside  world  at  least  must  remain 
in  ignorance. 

"I'll  tell  you  on  one  condition,  Bellamy,"  he  announced, 
at  length,  "and  that  is  that  the  matter  does  not  go  beyond 
you.  Give  me  your  word  of  honour." 

The  other  gave  it. 

"Elizabeth  has  run  away — she  went  yesterday  after- 
noon. She  went  away  with  that  rat,  Macy.  God  knows 
where  she  is!" 

He  fumbled  about  his  desk. 

"Here's  a  letter  she  left.  ...  It  was  this  that  caused 
her  mother's  illness." 

Bellamy  read  the  letter  in  silence.  Then  he  reread  it, 
to  make  sure  that  his  first  impression  had  not  been  some 
frightful  mistake.  His  lips  were  compressed,  and  his 
hand  involuntarily  crumpled  up  the  sheet  of  paper  it 
held. 

When  he  had  regained  his  self-control  he  said  in  a 
serious,  almost  dictatorial  voice:  "You  must  let  no  one 
know  of  this.  You  must  be  careful.  Her  absence  will 
create  suspicion,  but  it  must  be  explained  away  somehow 
—for  the  present.  The  papers  would  go  crazy  if  they 
got  a  story  like  this.  You  must  say  that  she  has  gone  to 
visit  relatives,  on  account  of  her  mother's  condition — or 

213 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

that  you  have  sent  her  away  to  school.  Tell  them  any- 
thing." 

"No  one  will  know  unless  you  tell  them,"  Bradshaw 
replied. 

"I  tell  them!"  The  attitude  of  respect  which  Bellamy 
had  always  taken  toward  the  older  man  now  left  him. 
"Do  you  think  I  am  mad?  I'd  be  the  last  to  tell  any 
one." 

He  thought  a  moment.  Already  his  mind  had  gone  to 
work  on  a  plan  of  action. 

"What  time  did  she  leave  here?"  he  asked  suddenly. 

"I  don't  know,"  the  man  replied  with  bitterness.  "And 
I  don't  care.  She  has  gone — and  she  shall  never  come 
back." 

"She  went  at  four  o'clock."  It  was  the  voice  of  the 
Woman  who  spoke.  She  had  entered  the  room  quietly 
and  stood  by  the  door. 

"Four?"  repeated  Bellamy.  "Of  course.  Just  in  time 
to  catch  the  Limited  for  the  East." 

He  started  for  the  door. 

"Advise  your  servants,  Mr.  Bradshaw,"  he  said,  look- 
ing at  the  Woman  with  suspicion.  "Tell  them  where 
your  daughter  is  visiting,  lest  they  wag  their  tongues 
and  create  a  scandal.  I  must  be  off." 

He  went  out  hurriedly. 

For  the  first  time  in  his  acquaintance  with  Macy  he 
had  doubts  as  to  the  man's  honesty.  Nothing  had  ever 
arisen  between  the  two  which  had  involved  a  point  of 
honour,  and  he  had  given  little  thought  to  Macy's  charac- 
ter. But  somehow  the  present  matter  filled  him  with 
grave  doubts.  He  did  not  trust  the  other  man,  although 
he  had  no  definite  reason  for  his  attitude.  He  had  always 
liked  Macy  as  a  companion,  but  he  suddenly  realised  that 
214 


The  Girl  Who  Had  Been  Protected 

there  had  never  been  any  intimate  interchange  between 
them.  Macy  had  been  abroad  for  five  years,  and  on  his 
return  the  two  young  men  had  seen  little  of  each  other 
outside  of  casual  meetings.  Now  his  act  filled  Bellamy 
with  hatred  and  disgust.  It  was  underhand  and  deceitful, 
even  if  Macy  intended  the  best  by  the  girl.  He  had  ob- 
viously taken  advantage  of  her  youth,  of  her  innocence 
and  faith. 

Bellamy  went  directly  to  the  station  and  made  inquiries 
at  the  ticket  office.  At  first  the  man  whom  he  questioned 
was  brusque  and  discourteous.  But  the  reporter  told  him 
who  he  was.  Bellamy's  name  was  known  to  nearly  every 
one  in  Edenburg  who  read  the  paper;  and  after  his 
identity  had  been  established  he  was  treated  with 
courtesy. 

"It's  hard  to  give  you  any  definite  information,  Mr. 
Bellamy,"  the  ticket  agent  told  him.  "There  are  many 
tickets  sold  for  the  Limited.  .  .  .  Just  what  do  you  want 
to  get  at?" 

"Simply  this,"  the  young  man  replied  eagerly.  "I  want 
to  know  if  a  pair  of  tickets  were  sold  yesterday  to  any 
intermediate  point  between  here  and  Albany.  The  Lim- 
ited makes  stops  between  here  and  there,  doesn't  it  ?" 

"One  or  two,"  the  other  replied.  "But  most  of  the 
passengers  from  here  go  through  to  Albany.  I'll  see  if  I 
can  help  you  out." 

He  opened  a  drawer  and  took  out  a  manila  envelope 
from  which  he  withdrew  a  large  pile  of  coupons.  He 
looked  them  over  carefully  for  nearly  five  minutes. 

"There  was  only  one  ticket  sold,"  he  announced  at 
length,  "to  an  intermediate  point  yesterday,  on  the  Lim- 
ited. It's  a  special-fare  train,  otherwise  I  wouldn't  know 
which  tickets " 

215 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

"Only  a  single  ticket?"  Bellamy  asked,  interrupting 
him. 

"That's  all." 

Bellamy  thanked  him  and  went  to  the  Pullman  office. 
There  he  learned  that  one  private  compartment  had  been 
sold  for  Albany  on  the  Limited,  the  day  before. 

Bellamy  then  returned  to  the  Star.  It  was  now  obvious 
to  him  that  Macy  and  the  girl  had  gone  to  Albany.  With 
/  this  information  in  hand,  he  sat  a  long  time  at  his  desk, 
thinking  deeply.  His  first  impulse  was  to  follow,  but  it 
suddenly  occurred  to  him  that  he  could  do  nothing  if  he 
found  them,  provided  Macy  had  played  fair  and  married 
her.  This  was  by  no  means  improbable,  for  Macy  may 
have  loved  the  girl,  and  she  may  have  loved  him.  Le- 
gally she  was  of  age;  and  even  if  she  hadn't  been,  it 
would  have  to  be  her  father  who  would  take  action. 

But  on  the  other  hand,  things  might  be  different  from 
what  he  hoped.  He  could  not  crowd  the  doubt  from  his 
mind  that  Macy  might  have  tricked  the  girl  into  an  elope- 
ment. Macy  always  seemed  to  have  plenty  of  money. 
The  girl's  attractiveness  might  have  led  him  into  an  un- 
worthy and  disgraceful  act.  That  was  the  thing  that 
worried  Bellamy.  And,  if  it  proved  true  that  Elizabeth 
had  been  deceived,  then  he  himself  could  act.  He  could 
help  her,  provided  he  could  reach  her  in  time,  for  he 
believed  that,  if  Macy's  intentions  had  been  dishonour- 
able, he  would  not  remain  with  her  in  America,  but  would 
take  the  first  opportunity  to  go  abroad. 

His  doubt  was  what  decided  him.  He  must  take  no 
chance.  He  went  to  Duncan  Harrison. 

"I  want  a  vacation,  Mr.  Harrison,"  he  announced 
abruptly. 

Harrison  wheeled  round  and  looked  at  him  in  surprise. 
216 


The  Girl  Who  Had  Been  Protected 

"What  the  devil  did  you  say  ?"  he  asked.  "A  vacation 
at  this  time  of  year!  What's  the  idea?" 

He  knew  that  Bellamy  did  not  merely  want  a  pleasure 
vacation,  and  he  sensed  that  something  was  wrong. 

"The  only  id^a  is,"  the  young  reporter  answered,  "that 
I  want  a  rest  for  a  little  while.  I  work  hard " 

"Don't  tell  me  what  you've  done!"  Harrison  cut  in 
gruffly.  .  .  .  "But  this  isn't  any  time  for  vacations.  Wait 
till  next  summer,  and  I'll  give  you  a  long  one.  You've 
got  it  coming  to  you  then." 

"I  can't  wait,"  Bellamy  told  him  sharply.  "I  want  it 
now — or  I  don't  want  it  at  all." 

"Well,  suppose  I  don't  give  it  to  you  ?" 

"Then  I'll  quit,"  the  other  told  him. 

"The  hell  you'll  quit!"  Harrison  roared.  "Do  you 
think  I'm  going  to  let  you  quit  this  paper  after  all  these 
years  I've  trained  you  into  the  work  ?  Not  on  your  life !" 

He  smiled  paternally. 

"Take  your  vacation,  and  be  damned." 

"Thank  you,"  Bellamy  answered.  "I  won't  be  away 
long." 

"How  long?" 

"Well,  we'll  say  a  week."  Then  Bellamy  added :  "Or, 
maybe  a  little  longer." 

"What's  up  your  sleeve,  my  boy?"  Harrison's  tone 
expressed  more  than  a  mere  business  interest. 

"I  don't  know  yet,"  the  other  answered  honestly. 

"Oh,  well,  keep  it  to  yourself.  But  before  you  go,  I 
wish  you'd " 

"Before  I  go,"  the  reporter  interrupted,  "there's  just 
enough  time  to  catch  my  train." 

"A  hurry  call,  eh?"  snorted  the  older  man.  "Well, 
good  luck  to  you." 

217 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

"Say !"  he  called,  when  Bellamy  was  at  the  door ;  and 
his  eyes  twinkled  wisely.  "If  you  don't  send  me  an  in- 
vitation, you  don't  get  a  present." 

After  the  other  had  gone  Harrison  wondered  why  his 
words  seemed  to  have  pained  the  other. 

Bellamy  went  direct  to  the  bank  and  withdrew  what 
little  money  he  had  saved.  Then  he  hurried  home  and 
packed  a  few  things.  He  reached  the  station  only  a 
few  minutes  before  the  train  left. 

When  he  stepped  off  at  Albany,  late  that  afternoon, 
he  realised  the  hopelessness  of  finding  Macy  and  the  girl. 
He  had  no  clue  to  go  on.  He  might  make  a  canvass  of 
the  hotels,  for  even  had  Macy  not  registered  in  his  own 
name,  Bellamy  knew  his  handwriting  sufficiently  well  to 
have  detected  it.  But  this  plan  he  dismissed.  There 
were  many  hotels  in  Albany,  and  the  task  would  consume 
too  much  time.  Also,  it  was  more  than  likely  that  Macy 
had  not  remained  in  Albany,  but  had  gone  direct  to  New 
York  or  Montreal  for  the  purpose  of  sailing  abroad. 
If  indeed  this  had  been  the  case,  what  little  hope  there 
was  of  intercepting  him  before  he  sailed  would  be  gone. 

Confronted  with  the  outlook  of  failure,  Bellamy  again 
tried  to  reason  with  himself  that  Macy  cared  for  Eliza- 
beth and  that  she  was  safe  in  his  hands.  But  he  found 
little  comfort  in  such  reasoning.  Though,  for  the  mo- 
ment, he  had  almost  decided  to  return  to  Edenburg  and 
to  give  up  his  difficult  quest,  he  could  not  bring  himself 
to  turn  back  until  he  was  sure  that  the  girl  he  loved  had 
come  to  no  harm. 

As  he  stood  on  the  sidewalk  in  front  of  the  station, 
deliberating  what  he  should  do,  it  occurred  to  him  that 
he  could  find  out  fairly  definitely  about  the  girl's  mar- 
218 


The  Girl  Who  Had  Been  Protected 

riage,  although  he  might  not  be  able  to  trace  her  and 
Jearn  it  from  her  own  lips.  He  knew  Macy  had  not  mar- 
ried her  in  Edenburg.  The  man  would  not  have  dared  do 
that,  for  it  would  have  gotten  into  the  papers  through 
the  license  bureau.  Another  thing,  between  the  time 
Elizabeth  had  left  the  house  and  the  time  when  the 
Limited  was  due  to  go,  there  had  been  less  than  half  an 
hour.  They  had  arrived  in  Albany  the  previous  night, 
too  late  to  obtain  a  license,  but  had  they  remained  there 
until  the  next  day  they  might  have  been  married  that 
morning.  If  not,  and  they  had  gone  directly  to  New 
York,  in  order  to  take  their  boat,  then  that  city  would  be 
where  the  license  had  been  issued. 

Bellamy  hurried  to  the  Court  House,  arriving  just  be- 
fore it  closed.  He  went  eagerly  over  the  records  of  the 
day,  hoping  that  he  would  find  a  sign  of  Macy's  good 
faith.  But  it  was  not  there.  Then  he  went  to  the  tele- 
graph office  and  sent  a  message  to  an  old  newspaper 
man  he  knew  on  the  New  York  Times,  telling  him  Macy's 
name,  and  asking  him  to  wire  back  immediately  if  there 
had  been  a  marriage  license  issued  that  day. 

While  he  was  waiting  for  a  reply  he  bought  a  paper 
and  studied  the  list  of  sailings.  A  slow  boat  had  left 
New  York  that  day  at  noon,  and  another  boat,  even 
smaller  and  slower,  was  due  to  sail  from  the  same  city 
the  next  afternoon.  He  turned  to  the  Montreal  depar- 
tures. There  he  discovered  that  one  of  the  largest  boats 
on  the  line  between  Montreal  and  Liverpool  sailed  early 
the  following  morning. 

Bellamy  pondered  over  the  frugal  facts  at  his  disposal, 
weighing  all  their  possibilities ;  but  he  knew  he  could 
arrive  at  no  conclusion  until  he  had  heard  from  New 
York.  If  Macy  had  married  the  girl  there,  then  they 

219 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

had  probably  already  sailed,  and  there  was  nothing  for 
him  to  do  but  to  return.  If,  however,  there  was  no 
record  of  their  marriage,  then  it  would  seem  that  the 
man  had  taken  her  to  Montreal  with  the  intention  of 
sailing  on  the  following  morning's  boat.  Even  if  this 
were  the  case,  there  was  yet  a  chance  that  Macy  had 
played  fair,  for  he  might  have  taken  her  to  Montreal 
before  their  marriage,  to  escape  the  possibility  of  being 
followed  by  Elijah  Bradshaw  or  his  agents.  And  even 
had  Macy  not  intended  marrying  the  girl,  it  was  more 
than  likely  he  had  gone  to  Montreal  in  order  to  escape 
from  the  country.  However,  Bellamy  did  not  give  up 
his  hope  that  his  friend  in  New  York  would  send  an 
affirmative  answer. 

Two  hours  later  the  telegram  came.  There  had  been 
no  marriage  license  taken  out  in  New  York  under  the 
name  of  Macy.  Bellamy  was  disappointed,  but  did  not 
give  up  hope  of  the  girl's  safety.  There  was  nothing 
more  now  for  him  to  do  in  Albany.  The  one  chance 
open  to  him  was  to  hurry  to  Montreal,  and  try  to  reach 
there  before  the  boat  sailed.  He  felt  convinced  that  Macy 
had  gone  there,  no  matter  what  his  intentions. 

He  at  once  returned  to  the  station.  There  was  a  mid- 
night train  for  Montreal,  and,  if  it  was  on  time,  it  would 
put  him  in  that  city  an  hour  before  the  boat  was  due  to 
sail. 

The  hours  dragged  themselves  out  slowly  until  mid- 
night. Bellamy  walked  about  the  bleak  streets,  trying 
to  prepare  himself  to  receive  with  equanimity  the  disap- 
pointment which  might  be  awaiting  him.  There  were 
many  other  possible  courses  which  Macy  might  have 
taken,  but  Montreal  was  the  most  plausible  one,  and,  in 
case  the  man  was  dishonourable,  the  safest.  As  Bellamy 
220 


The  Girl  Who  Had  Been  Protected 

thought  of  the  girl  his  tenderness  toward  her  grew. 
His  protective  instinct  became  emphasised  to  a  degree 
which  he  had  not  formerly  experienced.  Primarily,  he 
wanted  her  to  be  happy.  That  was  the  animating  purpose 
of  his  mission.  If  he  found  that  Macy's  affection  for  her 
was  genuine  and  that  the  girl  reciprocated  that  love,  he 
would  have  no  word  to  say;  and,  under  the  circum- 
stances, he  secretly  hoped  that  such  would  be  the  case, 
despite  the  fact  that  it  would  spell  the  greatest  sorrow 
that  had  thus  far  come  into  his  life. 

He  was  too  nervous  and  anxious  to  sleep  on  the  train 
that  night.  He  did  not  even  take  a  berth,  but  sat  in  the 
smoking  car,  looking  out  into  the  blackness. 

Shortly  after  the  Canadian  Customs  Inspectors  had 
passed  through  the  car,  the  first  glimmer  of  dawn  showed 
above  the  horizon.  He  became  more  and  more  uneasy 
as  he  approached  his  destination.  An  official  passed  him, 
and  he  made  inquiry  as  to  whether  or  not  the  train  was 
on  time.  He  learned  that  they  had  lost  over  an  hour 
during  the  night,  but  that  there  was  a  hope  that  some  of 
the  time  would  be  made  up  before  they  reached  Montreal. 
When  Bellamy  learned  of  the  delay  a  black  fear  swept 
over  him  that,  in  case  things  were  not  as  they  should  be, 
he  might  be  too  late. 

The  world  outside  grew  lighter  and  lighter.  Brown, 
barren  fields  stretched  away  into  the  low  distances.  A 
white  mist  hovered  about  the  trees  and  the  scattered 
houses.  The  cold,  wind-swept  landscape  cast  a  spell  of 
gloom  over  him,  and  he  consulted  his  watch  with  some- 
thing like  terror. 

"Are  we  making  up  time?"  he  asked  another  offi- 
cial. 

"A  little,"  came  the  other's  indifferent  answer. 

221 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

Two  hours  later  they  came  into  the  outskirts  of  Mon- 
treal. The  streets  were  narrow,  the  houses  low  and  in  a 
state  of  dilapidation.  Save  for  the  few  people  who  were 
astir,  these  tottering  houses  and  unkempt  streets  might 
have  belonged  to  a  deserted  city.  For  half  an  hour  the 
train  passed  slowly  through  the  sordid  suburbs,  and  then 
came  to  a  standstill. 

Bellamy  started  to  leave  the  train,  but  an  official  told 
him  that  they  were  several  miles  from  the  station,  and 
that  they  were  waiting  for  another  train  to  pull  out.  It 
was  barely  half  an  hour  before  the  boat  was  due  to 
leave,  and  he  paced  up  and  down  in  nervous  alarm.  He 
looked  out  of  the  windows  for  some  kind  of  a  public 
conveyance  that  might  take  him  directly  to  the  docks. 
He  knew  there  was  little  hope  of  finding  one  in  that 
section  of  the  city.  Only  two  lumbering  carts  ap- 
peared. 

Twenty  minutes  went  by  before  the  train  began  to 
move  again.  He  was  too  late  now.  The  boat  would  be 
gone  before  he  reached  it.  He  felt  utterly  fatigued, 
broken  and  defeated.  The  strain  of  the  day  before,  the 
long,  hopeless  hours  of  the  night,  the  nervous  tension  he 
was  under — all  reacted  on  him  suddenly.  But  he  tried 
to  encourage  himself  with  the  thought  that,  when  at  last 
he  should  arrive,  he  would  discover  a  record  of  the  girl's 
marriage. 

When  he  stepped  down  from  the  train  into  the  sprawl- 
ing Grand  Trunk  Station,  he  decided  to  hurry  to  the  dock 
anyway,  on  a  chance  that  the  boat  had  been  delayed. 
But  when  he  arrived  he  learned  that  it  had  been  outward 
bound  for  nearly  an  hour.  He  attempted  to  get  hold  of 
a  sailing  list  but  was  told  he  would  have  to  go  to  the 
main  offices  of  the  Steamship  Company  when  they  opened 

222 


The  Girl  Who  Had  Been  Protected 

at  nine  o'clock  that  morning.  It  was  already  after  eight 
now,  and  he  took  a  fiacre  to  St.  James  Street  to  the 
address  that  had  been  given  him.  He  was  haggard  and 
white  and  discouraged,  and,  as  his  finger  ran  down  the 
booking  register,  it  shook  so  violently  that  the  clerk  at 
the  counter  stopped  work  and  gazed  at  him. 

After  a  moment's  search  an  inarticulate  exclamation 
escaped  his  lips.  He  had  discovered  something  which 
had  not  been  in  his  calculation — he  had  found  Macy's 
name  registered  alone.  Feverishly  he  searched  for  that 
of  the  girl,  but  it  was  not  there.  Nor  was  there  any  other 
name  of  a  single  woman  travelling  alone.  The  list  was 
small  at  that  time  of  year.  There  were  few  bookings  to 
Europe  in  the  late  fall,  and,  with  two  exceptions,  all  of 
the  names  were  those  of  men.  The  two  women  regis- 
tered were  married  and  occupied  staterooms  with  their 
husbands. 

Bellamy  walked  out  of  the  office  in  a  daze.  It  was 
obvious  that  Macy  had  sailed  without  the  girl.  What 
could  have  become  of  her?  What  tragedy  could  have 
befallen  her?  Perhaps  Macy  had  refused  to  marry  her, 
and  she,  in  turn,  had  refused  to  accompany  him.  This 
was  the  first  thought  that  occurred  to  Bellamy  as  he 
stood  on  the  narrow  pavement,  jostled  by  the  hurrying 
pedestrians. 

He  turned  suddenly  back  into  the  Steamship  Com- 
pany's office,  and,  with  eager,  trembling  fingers,  wrote 
Macy  a  wireless  message: 

"Inform  me  immediately  where  Elizabeth  is  or  you 
will  be  arrested  in  Liverpool." 

He  signed  the  message  "Elijah  Bradshaw,"  giving  the 
address  of  the  Hotel  Windsor,  Montreal. 

When  he  had  deposited  the  message,  he  went  to  the 

223 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

hotel  and  waited.  He  knew  that  under  the  circumstances 
Macy  would  answer:  he  would  have  everything  to  gain 
and  nothing  to  lose  by  so  doing.  And  if  the  man  thought 
that  Bradshaw  was  in  Montreal  and  had  become  cog- 
nisant of  the  desertion,  he  also  would  realise  that  it  would 
be  possible  for  him  to  be  taken  into  custody  when  he 
landed. 

A  little  after  noon  the  answer  came,  stating  that  the 
girl  was  at  the  Place  Viger  Hotel. 

Bellamy  lost  no  time.  Jumping  into  a  carriage,  he 
gave  directions  to  the  driver.  It  was  a  long  ride  from 
the  Windsor  to  the  Place  Viger.  The  latter  hotel,  one 
of  the  largest  in  the  city,  was  far  over  in  the  French 
quarter ;  and  St.  Catherine  Street  was  busy  and  crowded, 
so  that  they  made  slow  headway.  Bellamy  urged  the 
driver  on  incessantly,  but,  despite  his  efforts,  the  trip 
seemed  interminable.  Finally  they  turned  down  a  small 
street  for  a  few  blocks  and  skirted  the  little  park  which 
faces  the  hotel. 

Bellamy  paid  the  man  liberally,  and  went  in.  The  girl 
had  not  been  registered  in  her  own  name,  and  he  had 
difficulty  in  explaining  to  the  clerk  whom  he  wanted  to 
see.  At  length,  however,  after  much  consultation  and  in- 
quiries with  the  other  men  behind  the  desk,  the  clerk 
returned  to  him. 

"You  probably  mean  Mrs.  Moore,"  he  announced. 
"Her  husband,  I  believe,  sailed  this  morning.  She  herself 
left  immediately  after  breakfast." 

He  looked  into  a  little  book  on  the  desk. 

"She  didn't  leave  any  forwarding  address,"  he  said. 
.  .  .  "That's  as  much  as  I  know." 

Bellamy  left  the  hotel  in  a  state  of  bewildering  disap- 
pointment. He  crossed  the  street  and  sat  down  hope- 
224 


The  Girl  Who  Had  Been  Protected 

lessly  on  a  bench  in  the  little  park.  The  air  was  cold  and 
biting,  and  the  chill  wind  rattled  the  dead  leaves  and  sent 
them  eddying  about  his  feet.  But  he  was  oblivious  to 
everything  save  the  problem  of  rinding  the  girl  he  had 
come  for.  She  was  somewhere  in  the  city,  alone  and 
deserted.  He  knew  she  would  not  return  to  her  home 
after  her  disgrace.  He  knew,  too,  that  she  would  not 
even  attempt  to  communicate  with  her  father  or  with 
any  one  she  knew,  For  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  con- 
sidered her  critically,  weighing  the  many  points  in  her 
character,  trying  to  determine  what  she  would  be  most 
likely  to  do  under  the  circumstances. 

Bellamy  at  length  reached  the  conclusion  that,  despite 
the  cruelty  of  the  situation,  she  would  try  to  find  some- 
thing to  do,  some  way  to  support  herself,  for  by  nature 
she  was  proud,  and  not  the  kind  that  would  give  in  sub^ 
missively  to  fate.  From  her  many  talks  with  him  about 
the  various  phases  of  the  newspaper  business,  he  knew 
that  she  was  familiar  with  the  purpose  of  "want  adver- 
tisements." Under  the  circumstances,  he  reasoned,  it 
would  be  the  most  natural  thing  for  her  to  do  to  search 
through  the  papers  for  some  kind  of  employment.  He 
did  not  fear  that  she  would  kill  herself.  She  had  too 
much  fortitude ;  and  she  was  too  much  in  love  with  life ; 
and  he  knew  her  too  well  even  to  consider  that  she  would 
turn  to  anything  else,  or  let  herself  be  drawn  into  the 
pitfalls  which  lay  in  wait  for  her. 

He  determined  on  a  course  of  action,  and,  driving  over 
to  St.  Laurence  Street,  he  rented  a  front  parlour  in  one 
of  the  old  residences  which  had  been  turned  into  a  better- 
class  boarding  house.  Then  he  went  to  every  newspaper 
ofHce  in  the  city  and,  after  much  consideration  and  re- 
vision, inserted  the  following  advertisement : 

225 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

"WANTED — A  young  girl  about  twenty,  as  a 
companion  to  a  child.  Must  have  had  high-school 
education  and  been  reared  in  gentle  surroundings. 
No  references  will  be  required,  for  the  girl's  breed- 
ing and  education  will  speak  for  themselves.  A 
pleasant  home  to  the  right  applicant,  who  will  be 
treated  as  one  of  the  family.  Preference  will  be 
given  to  a  girl  who,  if  she  should  fill  all  the  require- 
ments, would  like  to  be  adopted  and  cared  for." 

He  gave  the  address  of  the  house  where  he  had  taken 
quarters. 

Then  he  went  to  his  room  and  waited. 


226 


CHAPTER  XIV 

A   SINNER? 

WHEN  Macy  and  Elizabeth  had  arrived  in  Albany 
it  was  late  at  night.  The  man  had  left  her  in  the 
ladies'  waiting  room  at  the  station,  telling  her  that  he 
was  going  out  to  get  a  minister  to  marry  them.  He  had 
been  very  gentle  with  her  on  the  trip,  and  the  secret 
doubts  and  suspicions  which  had  kept  her  in  a  state  of 
anxiety  and  fright  were  finally  dissipated  by  the  time  they 
had  reached  Albany.  The  man's  words  about  the  minis- 
ter gave  her  much  comfort  and  peace,  and  she  waited  for 
him  in  almost  happy  serenity  while  he  was  away  from 
her. 

An  hour  later  he  returned  and  took  her  hand. 

"It's  all  right,  dear  heart,"  he  told  her.  "I've  found 
one.  I  had  to  wake  him  up.  He  was  irritable  at  first, 
and  said  we  would  have  to  wait  till  morning.  But  I 
finally  persuaded  him,  and  he  will  be  ready  for  us  by 
the  time  we  get  there." 

He  led  her  out  to  a  closed  carriage;  and  they  drove 
for  half  an  hour  before  they  drew  up  before  a  little  brick 
house. 

They  were  met  at  the  door  by  a  man  who  was  little 
older  than  Macy.  He  was  very  thin,  and  the  yellow 
light  in  the  dingy  hallway  accentuated  the  lines  of  dissi- 
pation on  his  face. 

Macy  presented  him  to  the  girl,  and  when  he  acknowl- 

227 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

edged  the  introduction,  the  thought  came  to  her  of  how 
different  he  was  from  Dr.  Smollet.  But  she  felt  very 
happy,  and  the  unusualness  of  the.  man's  appearance  was 
at  once  forgotten. 

It  was  a  simple  and  brief  ceremony,  unlike  the  wed- 
dings the  girl  had  seen  at  home.  She  regretted  that  hers 
could  not  be  public,  that  there  were  no  flowers,  no  music, 
no  formality,  and  when,  as  they  came  out  of  the  house 
together,  she  expressed  her  regret  to  Macy,  he  patted 
her  gently  on  the  arm  and  told  her  that  when  they  were 
in  England  they  would  have  a  big  wedding — the  kind 
that  she  wanted,  but  that  this  was  all  they  had  time  for 
now,  and  that  she  must  be  content  for  the  present. 

She  was  content  in  her  heart,  and  said  nothing  more 
for  a  long  time.  They  drove  to  a  little  station  on  State 
Street  and  waited  for  the  electric  car.  At  Ballston  they 
changed  to  another  trolley  line.  When  they  arrived  at 
Saratoga  it  was  nearly  one  o'clock  in  the  morning,  but 
the  girl  was  not  sleepy  or  tired.  She  was  too  happy  and 
excited  to  be  fatigued.  The  wonder  of  the  adventure 
thrilled  her.  She  felt  that,  at  last,  she  had  found  the 
romance  for  which  she  had  always  waited  and  of  which 
she  had  so  fondly  dreamed. 

They  went  to  a  large,  old-fashioned  hotel  with  great 
white  pillars  and  long  stretches  of  verandas.  It  was 
surrounded  by  giant  maple  trees,  and  faced  a  roadway 
wider  than  any  street  the  girl  had  seen  in  Edenburg. 

Late  the  next  morning  they  took  a  train  for  Montreal, 
arriving  there  in  the  bleak  twilight.  Macy  had  been 
very  quiet  on  the  trip,  as  if  he  had  something  on  his 
mind  which  was  troubling  him. 

"What's  the  matter,  dear?     Aren't  you  happy?"  the 
girl  asked.    "You're  as  gloomy  and  cross  as  father." 
228 


A  Sinner? 

The  man  tried  to  comfort  her  and  assure  her  that  he 
was  happy,  but  his  words  sounded  only  half-hearted. 

Toward  evening,  after  many  attempts  to  draw  him  out 
of  his  mood,  the  girl  lapsed  into  silence,  unable  to  under- 
stand the  change  which  had  come  over  him.  After  din- 
ner that  night,  at  the  Place  Viger  Hotel,  she  had  wept 
a  little,  and  Macy  had  spoken  to  her  irritably.  Some- 
how she  was  not  so  happy  as  she  imagined  she  would 
be.  But,  when  she  thought  of  Europe  and  of  the  ocean 
voyage,  she  brightened. 

"When  does  the  boat  go  to-morrow?"  she  asked 
eagerly. 

Macy  had  looked  at  her  and  hesitated  before  answer- 
ing. 

"About  noon,"  he  said.    "There  will  be  plenty  of  time." 

She  fell  asleep  dreaming  of  the  wonders  that  awaited 
her  on  the  morrow. 

When  she  awoke  in  the  morning  she  discovered,  with 
no  little  alarm,  that  she  was  alone.  She  was  frightened 
for  a  moment  and  worried,  but  in  a  moment  she  had 
dismissed  her  fear.  Macy  had  probably  gone  out  on 
some  business — perhaps  to  arrange  about  their  tickets. 
She  smiled  happily  and  waited.  At  nine  o'clock,  when 
he  did  not  return,  she  dressed  and  went  below.  She 
would  wait  there  for  him.  He  would  surely  be  back  to 
have  breakfast  with  her.  But  when  at  ten  o'clock  he 
did  not  come,  she  went  to  the  desk  and  made  enquiry  as 
to  what  time  he  had  gone  out.  He  had  told  her  that 
he  was  going  to  register  under  the  name  of  Moore,  so 
that,  in  case  her  father  followed,  they  could  not  be 
found. 

"Mr.  Moore  left  about  seven,"  the  clerk  told  her.  "He 
said  he  was  sailing  on  the  Scotland." 

229 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

A  black  mist  passed  before  the  girl's  eyes.  She  felt 
herself  swaying,  and  caught  hold  of  the  edge  of  the 
counter.  In  a  moment  she  had  summoned  all  her  self- 
control. 

"Thank  you,"  she  said,  as  if  there  had  been  nothing 
unusual  in  his  words.  Then  she  asked,  with  a  supreme 
effort  at  indifference:  "Is  there  another  boat  leaving 
to-day?" 

"No,  madam,"  the  clerk  replied  politely.  "There  is 
not  another  one  until  day  after  to-morrow." 

She  thanked  him  again  and  walked  blindly  to  her 
room. 

She  was  too  shocked  to  think  rationally.  Nor  could 
she  find  any  relief  in  tears.  Hardly  knowing  what  she 
was  doing,  she  packed  the  few  things  she  had  with 
her  and  walked  out  of  the  hotel,  avoiding  the  gaze  of 
all  she  passed.  She  felt  that  her  shame  was  written 
indelibly  on  her  face,  and  that  every  one  who  saw  her 
could  recognise  at  a  glance  her  tragic  humiliation.  Her 
only  idea  was  to  get  away,  to  shake  off  the  horror  of 
that  hotel. 

She  walked  aimlessly  through  the  park  and  entered 
a  long,  narrow  winding  street,  whose  stone  houses,  cold 
and  severe,  were  built  out  flush  with  the  sidewalk  and 
shouldered  each  other  closely,  with  rarely  an  inter- 
vening space.  She  did  not  take  note  of  where  she  was 
going,  nor  of  the  people  who  passed  her,  but  went  on 
and  on  like  an  automaton. 

Finally,  after  half  an  hour's  dazed  wandering,  the 
hand-bag  she  carried  began  to  grow  heavy.  She  was 
conscious  that  her  shoulders  ached  and  that  she  was 
fatigued.  She  began  to  look  about  her.  The  houses 
on  either  side  of  the  street  were  symbols  of  poverty. 
230 


A  Sinner? 

They  were  substantial  houses,  however,  of  the  kind  which 
shelter  the  middle  lower  classes  in  big  cities.  Some  of 
the  basements  had  been  converted  into  little  shops — 
grocery  stores,  carpenter  work-rooms,  cleaners'  and  dy- 
ers' establishments.  In  many  of  the  windows  were  little 
white  placards  bearing  the  legend,  "Chambre  meublee  a 
louer."  The  French  attracted  the  girl's  eye,  and  she 
stopped  in  front  of  one  of  the  signs  and  looked  at  it 
curiously. 

She  was  in  the  European  quarter  of  Montreal,  and  the 
afUches  seemed  to  taunt  her  with  that  which  she  had 
hoped  for  and  lost.  The  irony  of  these  signs  whipped 
her  into  a  realisation  of  her  condition.  The  thought 
suddenly  came  to  her  that  she  must  have  a  place  to  live. 
What  better  place  than  the  one  before  which  she  now 
stood?  It  was  far  away  from  the  busy  thoroughfares, 
in  the  part  of  the  city  where  no  one  would  ever  find 
her,  where  the  people  were  not  even  her  countrymen. 
She  had  a  little  money,  and  here  she  might  hire  a  room 
in  which  she  could  collect  herself  and  plan  for  the 
future. 

She  turned  to  the  house  nearest  her,  and  struck  the 
knocker. 

A  kindly  and  capable  bourgeoise  in  a  cooking  apron 
answered  the  door,  and  spoke  to  her  in  French.  Eliza- 
beth had  studied  a  little  French  at  school,  but  she  could 
not  understand  the  woman's  rapid  words. 

"I — I  don't  speak  French,"  she  stammered.  "Do  you 
speak  English?" 

"I  ought  to,"  the  woman  returned  quickly,  smiling. 
"I  have  lived  in  this  country  for  twenty  years." 

"I'm  so  glad !"  the  other  said.  "You  see,  I  wanted  to 
get  a  room." 

231 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

The  woman  led  her  in  to  a  dark,  musty  hallway,  and 
her  manner  was  almost  maternal  when  she  said :  "I 
have  a  very  nice  little  room  for  you." 

She  looked  at  the  girl  sadly,  as  if  she  understood 
her  affliction ;  but,  without  any  further  comment,  mounted 
the  narrow  stairs,  motioning  the  other  to  follow. 

It  took  most  of  the  girl's  money  to  pay  for  her  room 
and  board  in  advance  for  the  week,  and  when  the  woman 
saw  how  little  she  had  left,  she  patted  her  on  the  shoul- 
der with  rough  and  primitive  tenderness. 

"Don't  worry,  mon  enfant,"  she  said,  consolingly. 

With  that  she  left  the  room. 

After  an  hour  Elizabeth  regained  her  mental  equilib- 
rium. She  was  able  to  look  at  the  events  of  the  last 
few  days  with  a  clear  vision.  The  shock  of  the  revela- 
tion of  Macy's  duplicity  had  passed,  leaving  her  de- 
pressed and  fatigued.  Her  infatuation  for  the  man  had 
entirely  departed.  Now  she  had  only  resentment  and 
hate  for  him.  So  strong  was  this  new  emotion  that 
she  began  to  feel  her  own  potentialities  and  initiative 
and  action.  All  her  life  she  had  been  pampered  and 
subjugated,  but  she  had  always  inwardly  revolted  against 
the  restrictions  which  had  been  placed  on  her.  She  had 
the  vitality  of  impetuous  and  daring  youth ;  yet  she  had 
had  no  channels  through  which  to  express  it.  Now,  un- 
restricted by  any  exterior  influences,  her  nature  asserted 
itself.  Despite  her  tragic  sorrow,  there  was  a  certain 
zest  in  her  new  independence ;  and  she  determined  at  once 
to  meet  the  game  that  had  been  placed  before  her,  and 
to  play  it  with  fortitude. 

The  woman  brought  her  up  a  little  breakfast,  and 
it  strengthened  her.  Shortly  after,  she  went  forth  to 
seek  employment.  She  knew  how  the  girls  applied  for 
232 


A  Sinner? 

work  in  her  father's  store,  and  she  went  directly,  after 
making  enquiry,  to  two  of  the  largest  establishments 
in  Montreal.  At  one  they  took  her  application  and  told 
her  there  was  little  chance  of  a  position  until  the  holi- 
day season.  At  the  other  they  held  out  more  hope,  tell- 
ing her  to  call  again  in  a  fortnight.  She  was  some- 
what discouraged,  for  she  had  walked  miles  and  felt 
exhausted.  She  turned  again  toward  the  street  in  which 
she  lived,  intending  to  rest  the  remainder  of  the  day 
and  to  go  forth  again  in  the  morning. 

Passing  a  news-stand,  she  thought  of  Bellamy;  and 
in  that  instant  he  seemed  dearer  to  her  than  ever  be- 
fore. She  bought  several  papers,  intending  to  look 
through  them  in  the  hope  that  she  would  find  some 
opening.  When  she  was  in  her  room  again  she  read 
them  carefully.  There  were  several  advertisements 
that  attracted  her  attention,  and  before  dinner  that  night 
she  had  answered  them  all.  But  to  each  place  she  went 
she  was  too  late :  the  papers  had  been  morning  papers, 
and  it  was  now  late  afternoon.  She  decided  to  arise 
early  the  next  morning,  so  that  she  might  have  a  better 
chance  making  her  applications. 

She  went  to  bed  early,  but  slept  little.  When  the 
darkness  enveloped  her  the  horror  of  her  situation  came 
back  to  her  afresh.  She  thought  of  her  mother  with 
great  tenderness,  and  of  the  home  which  had  been 
forever  left  behind.  Her  loneliness  seemed  more  than 
she  could  bear. 

In  the  morning,  after  many  restless  hours  during 
which  she  had  dozed  off  occasionally  through  sheer 
physical  fatigue,  she  arose  at  dawn.  She  went  to  the 
corner  and  bought  all  the  newspapers.  During  the  night 
it  had  grown  colder.  There  was  an  unmistakable  touch 

233 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

of  the  approaching  winter  in  the  air.  It  frightened 
her  not  a  little  when  she  thought  of  the  severity  of 
the  northern  colds,  for  she  had  brought  with  her  no 
heavy  suit 

When  she  re-entered  her  room  the  woman  was  there 
with  a  cup  of  steaming  tea  and  two  little  croissants. 
She  saw  the  papers  under  the  girl's  arm,  and  shook  her 
head  sadly. 

"It's  hard  work  finding  anything  to  do  this  time  of 
year,"  she  said.  "But  don't  you  worry.  Maybe  my  hus- 
band knows  of  something.  I'll  speak  to  him  to-night 
when  he  comes  home." 

Elizabeth  was  confused  and  ashamed. 

"Why  don't  you  let  your  friends  know?"  the  woman 
asked,  after  regarding  Elizabeth  closely. 

The  girl  looked  up  at  her,  frightened. 

"No!     I  can't  do  that,"  she  said,  impulsively. 

"Then  you  have  friends,  haven't  you?  I  thought  so 
the  moment  I  saw  you.  Well,  maybe  you'll  change  your 
mind.  .  .  .  Come,  tell  me  all  about  it,  and  we'll  see 
what  can  be  done." 

"Nothing  can  be  done,"  Elizabeth  protested.  "I've 
got  to  get  some  kind  of  work.  .  .  .  And  I'll  get  it,  too !" 

The  woman  did  not  press  her.  She  merely  patted 
the  girl  on  the  shoulder  and  shook  her  head  knowingly. 
Then  she  went  out 

Elizabeth  did  not  wait  to  drink  her  tea  before  she 
opened  the  papers  and  began  to  read  the  advertisements. 

An  hour  later,  with  high  hopes  in  her  heart,  and  on 
her  face  something  which  resembled  a  smile,  she  walked 
out  into  the  wintry  air.  In  her  hand  was  a  little  clip- 
ping she  had  cut  from  one  of  the  papers.  At  the  corner 
was  a  police  officer,  of  whom  she  enquired  the  way  to 
234 


A  Sinner? 

St.  Lawrence  Street.  He  pointed  the  direction  brusquely, 
and  she  hurried  on,  forgetting  to  thank  him. 

When  at  last  she  came  to  the  turning,  her  heart  was 
beating  fast,  and  her  lips  trembled  with  excitement. 
Maybe  she  would  be  too  late!  Maybe  they  would  ask 
her  questions  about  herself  and  her  life ;  and  she  would 
not  know  what  to  say.  The  hope  held  out  to  her  by 
the  clipping  seemed  impossible  of  fulfilment.  She  looked 
at  the  numbers  of  the  houses  and  then  again  at  the 
advertisement.  She  was  a  long  way  from  her  destina- 
tion, and  she  quickened  her  steps,  fighting  against  the 
sharp  wind  which  blew  in  her  face. 

After  nearly  a  half-hour's  walk  she  came  to  a  stand- 
still, in  order  to  collect  her  thoughts  and  regain  her 
breath.  The  house  to  which  she  was  going  was  in  the 
next  block,  and  she  wanted  to  be  calm  and  collected 
when  she  entered.  Suppose  this  quest  should  prove  fu- 
tile— that  was  a  possibility  which  frightened  her.  After 
tarrying  a  few  moments  she  went  on  slowly,  scrutinising 
each  number  she  passed.  When  she  came  to  the  place 
which  might  mean  everything  to  her,  she  hesitated.  A 
wave  of  faintness  passed  over  her,  and  she  was  almost 
afraid  to  enter. 

As  she  stood  there,  her  hands  clasped  tightly,  her 
breath  coming  and  going  in  little  quick  gasps,  the  front 
door  opened  and  a  young  man  rushed  down  the  steps, 
bare-headed,  and  came  up  to  her. 

So  suddenly  had  it  all  happened  that  the  girl's  mind 
could  not  immediately  grasp  the  apparent  miracle  of 
what  she  saw.  But  when  she  felt  his  arms  around  her 
and  looked  up  into  his  strained,  happy  face,  she  sensed 
the  reality  of  it  all.  Her  heart  seemed  to  stop  beat- 
ing. Her  knees  grew  weak,  and  only  with  difficulty 

235 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

could  she  stand.     In  another  instant  she  was  sobbing 
almost  hysterically. 

Bellamy  led  her  into  the  house  tenderly  and  without 
a  word.  He  placed  her  in  a  big  chair  and  knelt  down 
at  her  side.  Her  happiness  had  been  so  sudden  and 
overpowering  that  she  had  forgotten  her  shame.  Now 
it  came  back  to  her,  and  she  covered  her  face  with  her 
hands. 

"There,  there,  dear  child!"  the  man's  voice  was  say- 
ing. "Thank  God,  I  have  found  you!  There's  nothing 
to  cry  about  any  more." 

She  could  not  bring  herself  to  look  at  him. 

"You  mustn't  be  ashamed  for  what  you  have  done," 
he  went  on  tenderly.  "All  will  be  forgotten.  The  min- 
ute I  found  that  you  had  gone,  I  came  after  you.  I 
couldn't  let  you  go  without  knowing  that  you  were  safe 
and  happy.  ...  I  would  have  stayed  here  in  Montreal 
the  rest  of  my  life — until  I  found  you." 

Still  she  could  not  speak,  or  look  at  him.  She  only 
knew  that  she  loved  him,  that  she  had  always  loved  him 
from  her  early  girlhood.  And  that  very  love,  because 
of  the  memory  of  the  past  days,  made  her  draw  away 
from  him. 

Bellamy  mistook  her  attitude.  He  had  never  hoped 
that  she  loved  him  as  he  did  her,  and  when  she  had 
gone  away  with  Macy  he  felt  that  for  years  he  had  nour- 
ished a  vain  hope. 

"You  needn't  be  afraid  of  me,"  he  said.  "I  shall  ask 
nothing  of  you.  I  only  want  to  help  you.  I  want  you 
to  know  that  I  understand,  and  forgive  you,  too.  I 
knew  you  would  never  come  back,  or  let  your  people 
know  what  had  happened.  And  I  knew  you  would  be 
alone  here — and  I  was  afraid  for  you." 
236 


A  Sinner? 

"I  am  so  ashamed  of  myself,"  the  girl  sobbed. 

"You  mustn't  be  ashamed,  child,"  he  told  her.  "You're 
so  young — and  you  are  not  to  blame  for  what  you  have 
done." 

The  girl  did  not  think  of  her  guilt  other  than  that 
in  deserting  her  mother  and  father.  Her  humiliation  at 
being  duped  was  what  had  hurt  her  the  most.  Bellamy's 
words  gave  her  comfort. 

"I  did  wrong  in  leaving  my  home,"  she  said,  with 
all  the  bitterness  of  contrition.  "But  I  knew  they  would 
never  let  me  marry  him  if  I  told  them — and  I  was  so 
lonely  and  unhappy.  I  thought  I  loved  him,"  she  went 
on,  brokenly,  "and  that  he  loved  me.  That  wasn't  wrong, 
was  it?" 

Bellamy  was  a  little  startled  by  her  words. 

"There  is  nothing  wrong  in  love,"  he  said  reprovingly, 
"but  it  was  wrong  to  go  with  him  without  marrying 
him." 

"I  did  marry  him !"  the  girl  exclaimed.  Bellamy's  re- 
mark had  hurt  her  deeply. 

"You  married  him!"  Bellamy  stood  up  and  looked 
at  her  in  amazement.  "Where  did  you  marry  him?" 

"Why,  in  Albany,"  the  girl  replied,  angered  and  grieved 
at  the  man's  doubts.  "We  were  married  that  same 
night.  Do  you  think  I  would  have  gone  with  him  if  he 
hadn't  married  me?" 

Bellamy  was  too  surprised  to  speak  for  a  minute. 
Could  it  be  that  Macy  had  taken  out  a  license  before 
he  had  asked  the  girl  to  go  with  him?  Could  he  him- 
self have  overlooked  the  name  on  the  records?  .  .  . 
Then  the  terrible  suspicion  came  to  him  that  Macy  had 
tricked  her  by  a  false  marriage. 

He  looked  down  at  her  pityingly. 

237 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

"Tell  me  all  about  it,  Bess,"  he  asked,  "and  we'll  see 
what  can  be  done." 

"I'll  tell  you  everything,  Jack,"  she  answered,  after 
a  moment,  looking  away  from  him.  "Only — only  you 
must  tell  me  that  I  didn't  do  wrong." 

"I  can  tell  you  that  now,"  the  man  replied  tenderly. 
"You  did  nothing  wrong.  You  might  have  been  a  little 
foolish,  but  that  was  all." 

He  sat  down  opposite  her  and  took  her  hand  in  his. 

"I  thought  I  loved  him,"  the  girl  began.  "He  was 
so  gentle,  and  he  told  me  he  loved  me.  I  thought  he 
meant  it.  He  told  me  stories  about  Paris  and  said  he 
would  take  me  there  if  I  would  come  away  with  him. 
He  told  me  to  leave  a  note  for  my  mother,  so  that  no 
one  could  find  us  until  we  were  safely  away.  Then — 
then  we  came  here — and  yesterday  early  we  were  to 
sail." 

She  stifled  a  sob  as  she  thought  of  her  awakening 
the  preceding  morning. 

"In  Albany  we  went  to  the  minister's  and  were  mar- 
ried." 

"Where  in  Albany  did  you  go?"  Bellamy  put  in. 

"Why,  I — don't  know.  We  drove  there  in  a  car- 
riage " 

The  man  compressed  his  lips  tightly,  and  then  asked : 
"Who  saw  your  marriage?  .  .  .  Tell  me  all  about  it." 

"No  one,"  the  girl  answered  sorrowfully.  "We  and 
the  minister  were  all.  It  was  over  in  a  very  few  min- 
utes, and  then  we  left  for  Saratoga " 

"Wait  a  moment,"  Bellamy  interrupted.  "Did  you 
sign  anything  at  the — minister's?" 

"Why,  no,"  the  girl  answered,  puzzled.    "Why  should 
I  sign  anything?" 
238 


A  Sinner? 

"It's  customary — sometimes,"  he  answered. 

The  girl  looked  up  at  him,  frightened. 

"Why  do  you  ask  me  these  questions?  Is  there  any- 
thing wrong?  Wasn't  our  marriage  all  right?" 

Bellamy  pressed  her  hand. 

"Of  course — of  course."  He  could  not  bear  to  tell 
her  that  her  marriage  had  been  a  farce,  that  the  man 
who  married  them  was  an  accomplice  of  Macy's.  He 
saw  that  the  girl  had  entered  into  it  in  good  faith, 
and  that  she  believed  Macy. 

"You  see,"  he  explained,  "marriages  differ.  I 
just  wanted  to  know  what  kind  of  a  marriage  yours 
was." 

"He  told  me  that  when  we  got  to  London  he  would 
have  a  big  wedding  with  music  and  flowers.  ...  I  be- 
lieved him."  She  began  to  cry  again. 

"Of  course,  you  believed  him,  child.  What  else  could 
you  do?" 

"He  was  so  kind,"  the  girl  repeated.  "And  I  was  so 
happy." 

"What  happened  after  your  marriage  ?"  the  man  asked 
softly. 

"We  went  to  Saratoga,"  the  girl  went  on.  "We  stayed 
there  till  the  next  day.  Then  we  came  here  and  went 
to  a  hotel.  He  told  me  the  boat  would  leave  the  next 
day  at  noon.  When  I  woke  up  yesterday  morning  he 
was  gone.  But  I  thought  he  would  come  back — I  thought 
he  loved  me."  She  was  speaking  with  difficulty,  trying 
to  stifle  her  sobs.  "Then — I  found  out  that  he  had  gone 
— that  he  had  gone  on  the  boat,  and  that  there  was  no 
other  boat.  .  .  .  He  had  deserted  me " 

She  could  speak  no  more.  Her  shoulders  moved  con- 
vulsively. She  struggled  a  moment,  but  her  self-control 

239 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

went.  Bellamy  put  his  arms  around  her,  and  she  lay 
close  to  him,  weeping  like  a  little  child. 

"I  didn't  do  wrong— did  I  ?"  she  wailed.  "Tell  me  I 
didn't  do  wrong!" 

Bellamy's  eyes  were  moist.  He  did  everything  he 
could  to  comfort  her.  He  told  her  that  she  was  good, 
that  whatever  she  did  was  right — that  it  could  not  be 
otherwise. 

"But  what — am  I  to  do — now  ?"  she  asked  at  length. 

"You're  going  back  home  with  me,"  the  man  told  her 
firmly. 

"I  can't  go  back,"  she  sobbed.  "You  know  I  can't  go 
back.  Father  would  never  speak  to  me  again.  I  would 
only  disgrace  him  if  they  found  out  in  Edenburg  what 
I  have  done.  I  couldn't  face  it." 

"He'll  forgive  you,  just  as  I  forgive  you,"  the  man 
consoled  her.  "And  no  one  will  ever  know  why  you 
went  away.  No  one  knows  it  now.  .  .  .  You  must  come 
back." 

"Do  you  want  me  to  come  back?"  she  asked,  without 
looking  up. 

"If  you  don't  come  back,"  Bellamy  said,  "then  I  shall 
remain  here.  I  shall  always  stay  near  you.  Nothing 
else  matters — but  your  happiness." 

The  girl  now  turned  to  him. 

"How  can  you  care — now?"  she  asked  unbelievingly. 
"After  what  I've  done — after  my  marriage,  and  all " 

"I  care  more  than  ever,  dear,"  the  man  said  earnestly. 
"Don't  you  see? — you  need  me  now.  I  never  thought 
the  day  would  come  when  you  would  really  need  me. 
And  I  never  knew  that  I  could  love  you  so  much." 

"You  still  love  me?"  she  asked.  She  thought  of  her 
marriage,  and  a  new  grief  came  to  her.  She  had  not 
240 


A  Sinner? 

cared  on  his  account  before.  Now  her  love  for  him 
seemed  to  her  the  dominant  note  of  tragedy  in  the  whole 
episode. 

"I  love  you  more  than  I  have  ever  loved  you  before," 
he  told  her.  "And  it  makes  no  difference  whether  you 
love  me  or  not — I  shall  always  stay  by  you  and  help 
you  when  I  can." 

"But  I  do  love  you,"  the  girl  answered.  "I  have  al- 
ways loved  you,  I  think.  But  I  never  really  knew  it — 

until Oh!  it  was  you  I  loved  when  I  went  away. 

I  have  been  such  a  child.  I  didn't  know  how  much 
you  meant  to  me.  Now — when  it's  too  late — I  realise 
it." 

"It's  not  too  late,  dear  heart,"  the  man  breathed,  gath- 
ering her  close  to  him.  "It's  not  too  late." 

"But  I — I  am  his  wife."  At  the  sudden  memory  of 
this,  she  drew  away  out  of  the  man's  arms. 

"But  that  means  nothing,"  Bellamy  said,  his  heart 
full  of  happiness  at  the  girl's  confession.  "Such  a  mar- 
riage doesn't  bind  you." 

He  looked  at  her  incredulous  face. 

"When  we  go  back  to  Albany,"  he  added,  "we 
can  have  it  annulled.  I  know  just  what  to  do.  It 
will  be  wiped  out  as  if  it  had  never  taken  place  and 
then- 

The  girl  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 

"Oh,  I  understand — I  understand!"  she  cried  bitterly. 
"It  was  no  marriage,  was  it  ?  You're  trying  to  keep  that 
from  me.  And  all  your  questions !  He  tricked  me  into 
thinking  it  was  a  marriage,  and  the  minister  wasn't  a 
minister  at  all Oh,  tell  me  the  truth!" 

Bellamy  struggled  hard  with  himself  for  a  moment. 
But  when  he  took  the  girl's  hands  from  her  face  and 

241 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

looked  into  her  eyes,  he  knew  that  deception  would  be 
futile. 

"It  was  all  a  despicable  ruse,"  he  confessed  softly. 

She  shuddered  and  became  hysterical. 

"Oh,  the  shame  of  it!  To  think  he  would  do  that! 
To  think  that  I  trusted  him!  .  .  .  What  have  I  done — 
what  have  I  done?" 

"What  every  other  sweet,  loving  child  in  the  world 
would  have  done,"  the  man  answered.  "You  believed 
in  him,  and  you  thought  you  were  married  to  him." 

"What  shall  I  do  now?  ...  I  can  never  look  you  in 
the  face  again  after  this,"  she  moaned,  between  her 
sobbing. 

"But  if  I  forgive  you,"  the  man  protested  eagerly, 
"surely  you  can  forgive  yourself.  You  acted  in  good 
faith.  You  thought  you  were  married — and  that  was 
the  thing  that  counted.  It  wasn't  as  if  you  had  delib- 
erately done  wrong." 

She  did  not  answer  for  a  long  time.  Then  she  drew 
close  to  the  man  and  put  her  head  on  his  breast. 

"You  are  so  good,"  she  said  in  a  whisper,  "and  I  love 
you — oh,  how  I  love  you !" 

For  a  long  time  he  held  her,  his  lips  on  her  hair. 
They  were  oblivious  of  the  passage  of  time.  For  them 
the  world  seemed  to  have  stood  still. 

The  man's  voice  broke  the  silence. 

"You  are  going  back  with  me,"  he  told  her,  and  in 
his  tone  there  was  something  which  she  could  not 
disobey.  "I  shall  take  you  to  my  aunt's  first.  Then  I 
shall  go  to  your  father.  I  will  make  him  understand — 
and  he  too  will  forgive  you." 


242 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE  PRODIGAL  DAUGHTER 

THE  next  morning  they  arrived  in  Edenburg.  Little 
had  been  said  on  the  journey.  The  girl  had  been 
sorrowful  and  apprehensive  as  to  what  would  befall 
when  they  arrived;  and  Bellamy  respected  her  silence, 
doing  all  he  could  to  make  it  comfortable  for  her.  In 
Edenburg  he  took  her  directly  to  his  old  aunt,  with  whom 
he  lived.  Then  he  went  to  the  Bradshaw  home. 

The  Woman  met  him  at  the  door. 

"You  have  found  her?"  she  asked  anxiously. 

Bellamy  looked  at  her  with  suspicion. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

The  Woman  smiled  sadly. 

"I  know  the  truth,"  she  said.  "I  knew  it  before  you 
did.  She  went  away  with  Macy.  She  thought  she  loved 
him,  and  he  deceived  her.  It  was  not  her  fault — she  was 
a  good  girl.  .  .  .  You  have  nothing  to  fear  from  me," 
she  went  on.  "I  loved  her — like  a  mother.  I  have  waited 
anxiously  for  you  to  come  back.  I  prayed  that  you 
would  find  her  safe,  that  you  would  be  good  to  her." 

Bellamy  could  not  doubt  the  Woman's  sincerity.  He 
knew  that  she  was  telling  him  the  truth.  He  could  de- 
duce from  her  voice  that  it  was  her  heart  which  spoke ; 
and,  when  he  answered  her,  all  suspicion  had  gone 
from  him. 

"Yes,  I  have  found  her,"  he  said.  "She  was  in  Mon- 

243 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

treal.  Macy  had  deserted  her;  he  had  led  her  into  a 
fake  marriage.  She  is  at  my  house  now.  That's  why 
I'm  here — I  want  to  see  her  father,  and  find  out  if  he 
won't  take  her  back." 

"Pray  God  that  he  will!"  murmured  the  Woman,  as 
she  led  him  into  the  library. 

A  moment  later  Elijah  Bradshaw  entered.  He  pre- 
sented a  different  appearance  from  that  of  a  week  ago. 
He  looked  older;  the  lines  in  his  face  seemed  deeper. 
His  resolute  self-confidence  had  gone. 

"Well,  Bellamy,  my  boy?"  he  asked  as  the  younger 
man  entered.  His  voice  echoed  despondency  and  dis- 
couragement. 

"I  think  I've  got  some  good  news  for  you,"  Bellamy 
said. 

Bradshaw  laughed  bitterly. 

"Good  news  ?    Is  there  such  a  thing  in  the  world  ?" 

"I  have  found  your  daughter,"  the  other  told  him. 

"My  daughter!  Which  daughter?"  Then  Bradshaw 
corrected  himself.  "I  have  no  daughter." 

"Your  daughter  Bess."    Bellamy  attempted  to  be  calm. 

"I  told  you  I  have  no  daughter,"  the  other  man  re- 
plied irritably. 

The  reporter  ignored  this  remark. 

"I  have  found  Bess.  I  got  trace  of  Macy.  He  de- 
serted her  in  Montreal." 

Bradshaw  turned,  his  face  livid. 

"Montreal !"  he  cried  hoarsely.  "Great  God !  The 
sins  of  the  fathers !" 

"She  was  not  with  him  when  I  found  her,"  Bellamy 
went  on.  "I  found  her  in  a  little  boarding-house — 
alone.  I  brought  her  back.  She  is  coming  here " 

Bradshaw  struck  the  table  with  his  fist.  He  had  re- 
244 


The  Prodigal  Daughter 

covered  himself.  Once  more  he  was  bitter  and  ada- 
mant. 

"She  is  not  coming  here!"  he  cried  angrily.  "She 
shall  never  come  into  this  house  again !" 

"Do  you  mean  that?"  asked  the  other. 

"Mean  it!  Of  course,  I  mean  it."  Bradshaw's  face 
was  purple  with  rage.  "Do  you  think  I  would  take  her 
back  after  what  she's  done?  Don't  you  know  that  she's 
wrecked  her  mother's  life,  and  made  an  invalid  of 
her?" 

"I  wouldn't  say  that,  if  I  were  you,"  Bellamy  warned 
him. 

"Why  shouldn't  I  say  it?"  growled  Bradshaw.  "She 
did  it — I  tell  you  she  did  it  as  surely  as  if  she  had 
stabbed  her  with  a  knife." 

Bellamy  shook  his  head. 

"I  am  sorry.  I  thought  you  would  be  glad  to  know 
that  Bess  was  safe ;  that  she  was  coming  back  to  you." 

"I  am  glad  that  she's  alive,  I  suppose,"  Bradshaw 
said,  involuntarily.  "But  that  is  all." 

"And  you  will  not  forgive  her?"  the  younger  man 
asked.  "Not  when  you  know  that  she  was  tricked, 
that  it  wasn't  her  fault  altogether?" 

"No,  I'll  never  forgive  her." 

"Your  mind's  made  up?"  persisted  Bellamy. 

"My  mind  is  made  up,"  Bradshaw  answered,  uncom- 
promisingly. "Tell  her  not  to  come  here." 

"I'll  not  do  that,  Mr.  Bradshaw,"  the  other  answered 
firmly.  "She  has  a  right  to  come  here.  If  you  send 
her  away  again,  that  will  be  on  your  own  conscience. 
And  if  you  do  send  her  away,  then  I'll  take  her  to  my 
aunt's.  She'll  have  a  home  there,  and  she'll  be  cared 
for." 

245 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

The  older  man  looked  up  in  surprise. 

"After  what  she's  done,  would  you  take  her  in?  Do 
you  mean  to  say  that  you  still  care  for  her?" 

Bellamy  came  closer  to  the  man,  and  looked  him 
straight  in  the  eyes.  Then  he  said,  with  marked  ear- 
nestness: "Mr.  Bradshaw,  I  believe  that  a  girl  that's 
made  one  mistake  is  still  good  enough  for  any  fellow. 
If  she  hasn't,  she's  too  good  for  him." 

Bradshaw  said  nothing  for  a  moment.  "Oh,  very 
well,"  he  remarked,  at  length.  "Do  what  you  please." 

"The  day  will  come,  Mr.  Bradshaw,  when  you  will  be 
very  sorry  for  this  decision,"  the  reporter  said,  as  he 
went  toward  the  door. 

"I  want  no  advice  from  you,"  the  other  returned 
sharply. 

Then  a  change  came  over  his  manner. 

"Bellamy,"  he  called,  "don't  you  see  how  impossible 
it  would  be  for  her  to  stay  here  after  what  she  has 
done?  How  could  I  be  kind  to  her,  knowing,  as  I  do, 
the  affliction  she  has  brought  on  her  mother?  .  .  .  But 
I'm  glad  you  feel  the  way  you  do  about  her.  I  hope 
you  will  take  good  care  of  her.  If  you  need  any 
help " 

The  front  door  bell  rang  viciously. 

The  Woman  crossed  the  hallway. 

"It's  Judge  Bascomb  to  see  you,"  she  announced. 

Bradshaw  arose  and  crossed  to  the  door  which  led 
into  the  drawing-room. 

"That  tiresome  old  fool!  .  .  .  Tell  him  I'm  not  in — 
tell  him  I'm  sick.  Tell  him  anything."  He  turned  to 
Bellamy.  "I  don't  want  to  offend  him,  but  you  see  him 
for  me,  will  you?" 

The  young  man  nodded  as  Bradshaw  disappeared. 
246 


The  Prodigal  Daughter 

The  Judge  entered  hurriedly,  stamping  angrily  with 
each  step.  He  was  in  a  rage. 

"Where's  Bradshaw?"  he  demanded.  "I  want  to  see 
him  at  once." 

Bellamy  regarded  him  cynically. 

"Mr.  Bradshaw's  ill,"  he  said  pleasantly,  "and  he  can't 
see  anybody." 

"He'll  have  to  see  me — if  he  knows  what's  good  for 
him."  The  Judge  stamped  up  and  down  the  room. 

Bellamy  seated  himself  and  lighted  a  cigarette,  with 
annoying  nonchalance. 

"What  is  it,  Judge?    Anything  wrong?" 

The  other  man  drew  up  to  a  sudden  halt  in  front  of 
him. 

"Wrong!  Oh,  no,  nothing's  wrong!  Nothing  at  all," 
he  stormed.  "Only  a  lot  of  these  women  Bradshaw  has 
driven  out  of  the  Tenderloin  have  settled  in  a  big  house 
right  next  to  my  terraces  on  Livingston  Avenue,  and 
all  my  tenants  are  getting  ready  to  move  out.  .  .  .  Hell, 
no!  Nothing's  the  matter!" 

At  this  Bellamy  threw  back  his  head  and  laughed 
heartily. 

"Funny,  ain't  it,  you  young  ruffian?  Say,  look  here," 
he  announced,  ignoring  the  other's  mirth.  "I've  got  to 
see  Bradshaw.  Tell  him  I  want  to  see  him.  I  don't  care 
if  he's  dying." 

Bellamy  only  continued  to  laugh.  He  was  enjoying 
the  situation  immensely. 

"What  do  you  expect  Mr.  Bradshaw's  going  to  do 
about  it?"  he  asked.  "What  you  want  is  a  man  who 
can  move  houses.  Why  not  put  your  terraces  down 
in  the  Tenderloin?  All  the  women  have  left  there." 

Bascomb  ignored  the  other's  taunts. 

247 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

"Bradshaw  had  better  do  something  about  it,"  he  said, 
"and  do  it  pretty  quick.  He  stirred  up  this  mess,  and 
he's  the  man  I'm  going  to  hold  responsible." 

"Where  do  you  want  these  women  to  go,  Judge  ?"  the 
reporter  asked  him. 

"I  don't  care  a  tinker's  dam  where  they  go,"  the  other 
roared,  "so  long  as  they  don't  come  alongside  of  my 
property." 

Bellamy  sobered  and  turned  round  in  his  chair,  so 
that  he  could  face  the  other  man. 

"Judge,"  he  said,  "you're  getting  pretty  particular 
all  of  a  sudden.  If  I  remember  rightly,  you  owned 
a  couple  of  houses  in  the  old  segregated  district,  and 
you  didn't  have  any  objection  to  renting  them  to  these 
women  at  about  four  times  what  you  could  get  from 
anybody  else.  I've  got  all  the  dope  on  it  down  at  the 
office,  and  it  may  be  that  I'll  find  space  to  run  it  one 
of  these  cold  autumn  days." 

"Your  threat  doesn't  worry  me,"  Bascomb  replied, 
irritably.  'I  know  how  to  keep  things  out  of  the  news- 
papers. Anyway,  I  came  here  to  talk  to  Bradshaw,  not 
to  be  cross-examined  by  a  whipper-snapper  like  you." 

"Don't  get  sore,"  Bellamy  chided  him,  with  easy  good 
nature.  "As  Socrates  says,  'Things  are  not  always  as 
bad  as  they  seem.'  .  .  .  Come,  what  kind  of  a  place  have 
they  started  over  on  Livingston?" 

"Don't  know  what  they  call  it."  The  Judge  sat  down, 
tattooing  nervously  on  his  knees.  "All  I  know  is,  I 
want  it  closed  up.  ...  A  lot  of  young  girls  running 
in  there  at  all  hours — taxicabs  dropping  men  off  a  block 
or  two  away,  so  as  not  to  excite  suspicion.  Suspicion — 
humph !" 

"That's  a  call-house,"  explained  Bellamy.  "Scores  of 
248 


The  Prodigal  Daughter 

them  have  sprung  up  in  town  lately.  Apartment  houses 
are  full  of  them." 

"A  call-house?"  the  Judge  asked,  with  interest. 
"What's  that?" 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you,"  Bellamy  said. '  "The  woman  who 
runs  it  has  a  list  of  telephone  numbers.  The  girls  give 
them  to  her  so  that  she  can  call  them  up  if  they  are 
wanted.  Many  of  the  girls  work  in  stores,  and  don't 
earn  enough  to  live  on.  A  swell  place  of  that  kind  in 
Milwaukee  was  pinched  a  while  ago,  and  some  scandal 
sheet  got  hold  of  the  woman's  telephone  list  and  pub- 
lished it — names,  numbers  and  all.  Say!  It  pretty 
nearly  disrupted  the  town.  That  list  was  so  long  it 
looked  like  a  young  directory.  And  some  of  the  names 
on  it — zowie !" 

"Oh,  so  that's  it !"  muttered  the  other. 

"That's  only  one  way,"  added  Bellamy.  "There's  lots 
of  others." 

Judge  Bascomb  thought  a  moment.  Then,  as  if  re- 
membering something,  he  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"Well,  if  Bradshaw  is  going  to  side-step  this  mat- 
ter," he  announced,  "I'll  see  the  Chief  of  PoHce." 

"That's  a  good  idea,"  the  reporter  answered,  ironi- 
cally. "Tell  your  troubles  to  a  copper!" 

The  Judge  went  out  without  replying,  slamming  the 
the  door  after  him. 

Bellamy  waited  a  moment,  then  he,  too,  went,  going 
straight  to  Elizabeth. 

"Your  father  is  in  a  bitter  and  unforgiving  mood, 
dear,"  he  told  her.  "But  I  can't  believe  he's  altogether 
sincere  in  it." 

He  hesitated.  Sooner  or  later  the  girl  must  know 
about  her  mother's  condition;  and  Bellamy  believed  it 

249 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

would  be  better  if  he  told  her  now,  so  that  she  would  be 
prepared  when  she  returned  to  her  home. 

He  came  near  to  the  girl,  and  put  his  hand  on  hers. 

"Bess,"  he  began,  "you've  got  to  know  something — 
something  that  will  hurt  you;  but  you  must  be  brave 
about  it.  ...  Your  mother  has  had  a  breakdown." 

"My  mother?" 

The  girl's  grief  was  quick  and  overpowering.  She 
no  longer  thought  of  herself  and  her  own  tragedy.  She 
was  all  love  for  her  mother. 

"Is  it  anything  very  serious?"  she  asked,  frightened. 
"Tell  me,  Jack — I  can  bear  it." 

"It  may  not  be  serious,"  the  man  answered. 

"When  did  it  happen — what  was  the  cause  of  it?" 

Elizabeth  had  a  premonition  that  she  was  to  blame, 
that  it  was  her  act  which  had  affected  her  mother. 

"It  happened  the  day  you  went  away." 

"Then  I  was  to  blame,  wasn't  I  ?  It  was  my  note,  my 
leaving  that  did  it.  ...  Oh,  my  poor,  dear  mother!" 

"That's  the  reason  your  father  is  so  bitter  toward 
you,"  Bellamy  explained  tenderly.  "But,  when  he  sees 
you,  I  think  he  will  soften.  He  loves  you — I  know 
that.  He  offered,  through  me,  to  help  you.  .  .  .  He  will 
be  downtown  at  the  office,  probably  all  day  to-day;  but 
I  want  you  to  go  back  home  this  afternoon.  I  want 
you  to  be  there  when  he  arrives." 

"How  can  I  face  him — after  what  I  have  done?"  the 
girl  sobbed.  "And  my  mother " 

"You  mustn't  think  of  it  like  that,"  the  man  told  her. 
"You  must  go  back  and  be  brave.  And  if  your  father 
is  hard  and  doesn't  relent,  you  are  to  come  back  here 
— at  once.  This  will  be  your  home.  You  will  always 
be  cared  for.  My  aunt  will  look  after  you." 
250 


The  Prodigal  Daughter 

"But  I  want  to  go  to  my  mother  now,"  begged  the 
girl.  "I  want  to  ask  her  forgiveness.  I  want  to  tell 
her  how  sorry  I  am." 

Bellamy  could  not  bear  to  tell  her  of  her  mother's 
inability  to  speak  or  move,  and  of  the  extreme  danger 
of  another  shock.  But  he  saw  it  would  be  necessary 
to  do  so  in  order  to  keep  the  girl  away  until  her  home- 
coming could  be  prepared  for.  So  he  told  her  as  best 
he  could,  trying  to  make  it  as  easy  for  her  as  possible. 

She  understood,  but  did  not  answer. 

Bellamy  then  went  down  to  his  office. 

"Back  already,  are  you  ?"  Harrison  greeted  him,  good- 
naturedly.  Then  he  looked  at  his  reporter's  haggard 
face.  "You  don't  look  as  if  you'd  had  much  of  a 
rest." 

"I  didn't,"  Bellamy  told  him.  "I  didn't  go  for  a 
rest  either.  But  I  accomplished  what  I  set  out  for. 
Don't  question  me.  Maybe  I'll  tell  you  more  about  it 
some  day.  .  .  .  And  now  I'm  ready  for  work  again." 

Harrison  chose  to  ignore  the  mystery  in  the  young 
man's  words.  He  could  see  that  the  other  was  under 
a  severe  strain,  and  assumed  a  matter-of-fact  air. 

"The  paper  has  missed  you  a  lot  these  days,"  he 
remarked.  "Things  have  been  happening  fast  since  you 
went  away.  The  situation  here  is  getting  interesting. 
God  knows  how  it'll  all  turn  out.  This  town  is  a 
shambles." 

"What's  happened?"  Bellamy  asked. 

"Well,  to  begin  with,  we've  had  raids  every  night," 
Harrison  answered,  with  no  attempt  to  conceal  his  dis- 
gust. "Hundreds  of  women  have  been  turned  loose 
on  the  town.  The  whole  city  is  a  big  brothel  now. 
The  women  are  in  the  hotels  and  the  apartment  houses 

251 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

— they've  even  scattered  through  the  residential  sec- 
tions. They're  getting  beyond  the  power  of  the  police. 
The  Chief  is  working  hard,  but  it  would  take  a  young 
army  to  handle  the  situation.  Everybody  is  kicking,  ex- 
cept the  reformers.  You  meet  the  women  in  the  res- 
taurants, at  the  theatres,  in  the  parks — everywhere  you 
go.  I  worry  every  time  my  wife  and  daughter  go  out. 
.  .  .  And  the  complaints!  People  are  howling  on  all 
sides.  There's  a  constant  stream  of  good  citizens  pour- 
ing into  the  police  station,  raising  hell  about  the  fact 
that  their  neighbourhoods  are  being  invaded  and  that 
nobody  is  safe." 

Bellamy  laughed  a  little. 

"I  was  just  up  at  Bradshaw's,"  he  put  in,  "and  old 
Judge  Bascomb  came  in,  hot  under  the  collar  and  fum- 
ing. He  said  he  held  Bradshaw  responsible  because 
some  of  the  women  had  moved  in  next  to  his  terraces, 
and  his  tenants  were  getting  ready  to  move  out.  The  old 
hypocrite!  It  did  me  a  lot  of  good  to  hear  him  carry 
on.  I  warned  him  a  week  ago  what  would  happen ; 
but  it  never  occurred  to  him  that  he  himself  might  get 
it  in  the  neck." 

"For  two  days,"  Harrison  caught  him  up,  "he  has  been 
bothering  the  old  Chief,  cursing  and  ranting  around. 
He's  even  been  in  here  to  see  me.  It's  a  shame  to 
have  those  nice  terraces  ruined,  but  what  can  be  done? 
You  know  how  hard  it  is  to  get  evidence  on  a  call- 
house.  If  the  one  next  to  him  was  the  only  establish- 
ment of  its  kind,  it  could  be  watched  and  nabbed.  But 
he's  only  one  of  the  many  property-holders  who  are 
demanding  action." 

"It  serves  him  right!"  Bellamy  commented,  without 
sympathy.  "He's  an  old  rake  himself.  He  merely  went 
252 


The  Prodigal  Daughter 

into  this  crusade  because  he  thought  it  would  help  him. 
He'll  be  the  leader  of  the  opposition  here  in  a  short 
time,  and  then  there  will  be  a  mess." 

"Old  man  Barnes,  too,"  supplied  the  other,  "is  up  in 
arms  because  his  hotel  clerks  can't  tell  these  women 
from  respectable  guests.  Jennings  and  Stillman,  too, 
are  raising  particular  hell — and  all  three  of  them  are 
members  of  the  Citizens'  Committee.  They  helped  sow 
Gleason's  wind,  and  now  they  are  reaping  the  cyclone. 
I  told  them  candidly  they  themselves  were  to  blame, 
but  they  can't  see  it.  They're  as  hot  for  reform  as 
ever,  and  are  railing  at  the  police.  .  .  .  Why,  do  you 
know,"  Harrison  went  on,  "that  there  are  suspicions 
about  the  tenants  who  have  moved  into  the  big  house 
next  to  the  Girls'  Collegiate  School!" 

"There'll  be  something  doing  soon,  believe  me!" 
Bellamy  commented.  "There'll  be  a  reaction  against 
this  whole  crusade,  just  as  there  has  been  in  every  other 
city  where  Gleason's  methods  have  been  carried  out." 

"Well,  our  little  game,"  smiled  Harrison,  "is  to  sit 
tight,  and  follow  the  crowd.  But,"  he  added  medi- 
tatively, "if  I  was  a  millionaire  and  didn't  give  a  damn 
about  the  future  of  this  paper,  I'd  print  some  stuff  that 
would  make  them  sit  up  and  take  notice." 

Bellamy  did  not  answer,  and  the  other  grinned. 

"I  hear  no  objections  from  my  young  moral  friend," 
he  chuckled.  "You've  learned  a  couple  of  lessons  your- 
self, haven't  you,  my  boy?" 

"I've  got  nothing  to  say  now,"  Bellamy  answered, 
resignedly. 

He  went  out  to  his  desk  and  sat  down  to  think  things 
over.  He  looked  carefully  through  the  papers  which 
had  appeared  since  his  absence.  Despite  the  conserva- 

253 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

tism  of  the  editorial  policy,  he  could  read  undeniable 
evidence  of  the  crusade's  fell  results.  The  meetings  at 
the  Tabernacle  had  declined.  There  were  anonymous 
letters  in  the  "From  Our  Readers"  department,  con- 
demning the  new  conditions.  One  minister  had  preached 
a  sermon  against  the  inefficiency  of  the  police.  It  was 
a  subtle  rebuke  for  Gleason,  for  any  sane  man  knew  that 
the  police  were  inadequate  to  cope  with  every  phase  of 
the  vice  which  had  now  been  scattered  all  over  the  city. 
The  Mayor,  taking  strength  from  the  general  dissatis- 
faction of  the  property  owners,  had  modified  his  tactics, 
and  was  on  the  verge  of  coming  out  squarely  and  openly 
against  the  campaign.  But  the  reformers  were  still  push- 
ing ahead,  maintaining  that  things  would  adjust  them- 
selves, that  right  would  be  sure  to  triumph  in  the  end, 
that  the  powers  of  darkness  should  not  be  met  with 
compromise. 

The  one  fact  that  stood  out  from  all  the  reports  was 
that  the  women  were  not  leaving  the  city,  but  were  in- 
sinuating themselves  into  every  phase  of  its  life  and 
into  every  district.  They  were  getting  beyond  con- 
trol, for  they  were  practising  under  cover. 

Bellamy  smiled  cynically,  and  began  to  plan  for  his 
next  day's  story.  Now  that  he  had  returned,  the  bur- 
den of  the  campaign's  publicity  had  fallen  again  on 
his  shoulders. 

After  a  few  minutes  he  went  to  the  City  Editor  to 
obtain  a  copy  of  Gleason's  sermon  of  the  night  before, 
hoping  to  find  therein  something  which  would  give  him 
an  idea  for  his  "feature."  The  subject  of  the  sermon 
was  "Back-sliding  into  Hell."  It  was  one  of  those  per- 
sonal exhortations  for  which  Gleason  was  notorious, 
and  it  carried  insinuations  concerning  prominent  men 
254 


The  Prodigal  Daughter 

of  Edenburg.  It  was  a  crude  attempt  to  frighten  many 
of  the  prominent  local  merchants  into  stepping  in  line 
with  the  crusade. 

Bellamy  read  it  with  a  weary  smile  until  he  came  to 
the  passage :  "And  there  is  among  us  an  arch  back-slider 
— a  hypocrite  of  the  deepest  dye.  Although  he  has 
shelled  out  for  the  cause  of  righteousness  and  more 
than  once  swung  his  arm  to  upper-cut  the  devil,  he 
yet  is  guilty  of  a  crime  so  unthinkable  that  I  wouldn't 
believe  it  until  I  had  the  goods  on  him  personally.  This 
whited  sepulchre  has  taken  into  his  home  a  woman 
of  the  streets,  and  is  harbouring  her." 

According  to  the  newspaper  account,  Gleason  had,  at 
this  point  in  his  sermon,  dropped  on  his  knees  and  of- 
fered up  a  prayer  for  the  soul  of  the  accused. 

Bellamy  whistled  softly  and  went  to  Harrison. 

"Here's  a  hot  one,"  he  said,  pointing  to  the  passage 
he  had  just  read.  "Is  this  buncombe,  or  has  Gleason 
got  any  facts?  If  he  has,  there  might  be  a  good  story 
in  it." 

"I  don't  know  what  there  is  to  it,"  Harrison  replied. 
"Several  people  have  spoken  to  me  about  it.  There's 
a  rumour  around  that  Gleason  was  referring  to  Brad- 
shaw." 

"Bradshaw!" 

"It's  only  a  rumour,"  Harrison  explained,  noting  the 
young  man's  shocked  expression.  "The  story  was  prob- 
ably started  by  some  of  the  City  Hall  crowd  that's  got 
it  in  for  Bradshaw.  Personally,  I  don't  think  Gleason 
was  referring  to  anybody.  ...  In  any  event,  even  if 
such  a  thing  were  possible  in  the  case  of  Bradshaw,  Glea- 
son wouldn't  open  his  mouth.  He  knows  which  side  his 
bread  is  buttered  on." 

255 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

"Anyway,  I'm  going  around  to  see  Gleason  this  after- 
noon," Bellamy  answered  angrily.  "This  sort  of  rough 
stuff  is  going  a  little  too  far.  I'm  going  to  ask  him  a  few 
questions." 

Gleason  was  not  in  his  office  when  Bellamy  called, 
and  the  young  man  went  home,  leaving  word  that  he 
would  return  to  see  the  evangelist  later  in  the  after- 
noon. 

"Bess,  I  want  you  to  go  to  your  father,"  he  told  the 
girl.  "I  want  you  to  go  back  and  ask  his  forgive- 
ness. I  just  called  up  the  store,  and  they  told  me  he 
had  left  for  home.  If — if  things  are  not  all  right,  you 
must  give  me  your  promise  to  come  back  here." 

The  girl  gave  her  promise,  and  Bellamy  walked  with 
her  to  the  car. 

When  she  came  within  sight  of  her  own  house,  she 
was  frightened  and  wanted  to  turn  back ;  but  she  thought 
of  her  mother  and  of  Bellamy's  words,  and  she  stepped 
upon  the  front  porch,  her  head  bowed  with  shame.  She 
started  to  ring  the  bell,  but  was  afraid.  Withdrawing 
her  hand,  she  tried  the  knob.  The  door  was  unlocked, 
and  she  stepped  quietly  and  tentatively  into  the  hallway. 
She  looked  into  the  living-room,  but  there  was  no  one 
there.  A  great  weakness  overpowered  her,  and  she  sat 
down  in  a  chair  near  the  door,  covering  her  face  with 
her  hands. 

Some  one  touched  her  gently  on  the  shoulder,  and  she 
looked  up,  startled. 

The  Woman  stood  by  her. 

"Where's  my  father?"  the  girl  asked,  frightened. 

"He's  in  the  library,"  the  Woman  said.  "I  shall  call 
him." 

Elizabeth  put  out  her  hand  to  restrain  her. 
2516 


The  Prodigal  Daughter 

"No— not  yet." 

The  Woman  looked  at  her  with  pity. 

"You're  tired,"  she  said  tenderly.  "Hadn't  you  bet- 
ter come  to  your  room  and  rest  before  you  see  him?" 

The  girl  stood  up  with  resolution,  and  reached  for  her 
hand-bag. 

"No!  I  mustn't  see  him!"  she  said,  with  repressed 
excitement.  "I  can't  face  him!  I  thought  I  could — but 
I  can't.  I  can't  face  any  one.  ...  I  must  go — I  must 
go!" 

She  looked  about  her  wildly,  and  started  to  the  door. 

The  Woman  put  out  both  her  arms. 

"Wait  a  little,"  she  begged.  "You're  home  now,  don't 
you  see — home.  Your  father  will  be  so  glad !  We'll  go 
to  your  own  room,  and  you'll  change  your  things  and 
rest.  .  .  .  Then  everything  will  be  all  right.  Come." 

"I  can't — I  can't!  I  must  go!"  the  girl  wailed,  in 
broken  whispers. 

But  the  Woman  would  not  release  her. 

"Your  father  is  alone  now.  Your  brother  is  not  here, 
and  your  mother  is  silent  and  helpless.  You  are  the 
only  one  he  has.  Do  you  think  it  would  be  fair  to 
him  if  you  should  go  away  now?  .  .  .  And  your  mother 
— I  think  if  she  knew  you  were  back,  she  would  get 
better.  It's  the  worry  that  keeps  her  the  way  she  is." 

At  the  mention  of  her  mother,  Elizabeth  sank  back 
into  the  chair  and  began  to  weep  quietly. 

"When  did  she — when  did  it  happen?  Does  she  still 
love  me?  .  .  .  Do  you  think  she  could  forgive  me?" 

"She  has  already  forgiven  you,"  the  Woman  replied. 
"I  have  been  with  her  every  minute  during  these  last 
days." 

"If  she  had  only  known  that  I  was  not  altogether 

257 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

bad,"  sobbed  the  girl.     "I  thought  I  was  married  to 
him — I  believed  and  trusted  him." 

"She  knows  all  that,"  the  Woman  answered. 

"You  told  her?"  Elizabeth  asked,  wonderingly.  "But 
you  didn't  know  ?" 

"Yes,  my  child,  I  knew,"  said  the  other. 

"And  you  told  her  that  I  had  been  tricked  and  de- 
serted?" the  girl  asked,  incredulously.  "You  told  her 
that  I  had  not  intended  to  be  bad,  and  that  I  have 
paid?  Oh,  how  I  have  paid!  You  told  my  mother  all? 
.  .  .  How  did  you  know?" 

"I  told  her  all,"  the  Woman  answered.  "And  I  asked 
her  to  move  her  hand  if  she  forgave  you."  There  were 
tears  in  the  Woman's  eyes.  "It  was  an  effort  for  your 
mother  to  move,  for  she  is  paralysed.  But  she  did  move 
her  hand,  and  a  different  look  came  into  her  face.  So 
I  knew  that  she  forgave  you." 

Elizabeth  stifled  a  great  sob. 

"You  will  stay  now,  won't  you?"  implored  the 
Woman,  holding  out  her  arms  entreatingly.  "There  is 
nothing  to  fear.  Your  father  is  much  changed.  He 
needs  you.  .  .  .  Come,  you  will  stay?" 

The  girl  arose  slowly  and  moved  toward  the  Woman, 
as  if  in  a  daze. 

"You  are  a  servant — in  my  father's  house,"  she  said, 
in  an  awed  voice,  "and  yet,  when  you  spoke  just  now,  it 
seemed  to  me  I  heard  my  mother's  voice,  and  it  was  she 
who  said,  'Come,  you  will  stay.' " 

"And  you  will  stay?" 

"Yes — if  you  think  it  best.  Something  tells  me  I  must 
do  as  you  say  now,  because " 

She  broke  down,  and  walked  into  the  waiting  arms 
.of  the  Woman. 
258 


The  Prodigal  Daughter 

"Because  I  understand,"  the  other  finished,  drawing 
the  weakening  girl  to  her  breast. 

When  they  had  reached  the  head  of  the  stairs,  the 
girl  said :  "I  want  to  see  my  mother.  I  can't  wait." 

The  Woman  hesitated,  and  then  said,  as  if  to  her- 
self: "Perhaps,  after  all,  it  is  best." 

Together  they  entered  the  room  where  Martha  Brad- 
shaw  lay.  The  girl  rushed  to  the  bed  and  knelt  down. 
The  Woman  turned  her  head  away. 

"Oh,  dearest,  dearest!  I  am  so  unhappy!"  the  girl 
sobbed.  "Try  to  forgive  me — try  to  forgive  me.  I 
didn't  know "  she  ran  on,  incoherently. 

A  convulsive  movement  shook  Martha  Bradshaw's 
frame.  A  strange  light  showed  in  her  eyes.  Her  lips 
moved,  and  slowly  her  fingers  relaxed.  She  raised  her 
hand  and  placed  it  on  the  head  of  her  daughter. 

"My  little  girl!" 

The  Woman  started,  and  turned  about  joyfully. 

"Those  are  the  first  words  your  mother  has  spoken 
since  she  read  your  note !"  she  exclaimed.  "The  doctor 
said " 

"I  heard  what  the  doctor  said,"  Martha  Bradshaw 
spoke  again.  "And  he  was  right.  My  little  child  is 
back,  and  a  great  peace  and  relaxation  have  come  over 
me.  I  can  speak  and  move  my  arms " 

She  sank  back,  as  if  the  effort  had  exhausted  her, 
and  closed  her  eyes. 

The  Woman  leaned  over  her  and  listened. 

"Your  mother  is  sleeping,"  she  whispered  to  the  girl. 
"Come,  we  will  go  to  your  own  room.  She  will  be  bet- 
ter when  she  awakens.  It  was  you  she  needed  all  the 
time  in  order  to  get  well." 


259 


CHAPTER  XVI 

THE  REFORM   BOOMERANG 

/T*HAT  afternoon  Bellamy  returned  to  Gleason's 
J-  office.  The  evangelist  was  still  away,  but  the 
reporter  waited.  When  the  man  came  in,  he  greeted 
Bellamy  pleasantly. 

"Say,  son!"  he  exclaimed.  "To-night  we  start  the 
ninth  inning;  and  in  another  week  or  two  we'll  win  the 
game,  hands  down.  This  bush-league  town  hasn't  got 
a  look-in.  .  .  .  Come  into  the  other  room,  and  I'll  hand 
you  some  hot  dope  for  your  Sunday  story." 

Bellamy  was  not  pleased  with  Gleason's  good  nature. 
The  resentment  he  had  always  felt  toward  the  evange- 
list was  now,  for  some  reason  he  could  not  explain, 
greater  than  ever  before.  He  disliked  the  cowardly  man- 
ner in  which  Gleason  had  attacked  the  men  of  Edenburg 
in  his  sermon  of  the  previous  night,  and  he  resolved 
to  put  some  pointed  questions  to  the  reformer.  He  be- 
lieved that  Harrison's  frame  of  mind  was  such  that 
the  wily  newspaper  proprietor  might  be  induced  to  open 
the  Star's  columns  to  a  little  anti-reform  material. 

The  citizens  of  Edenburg  had  already  begun  to  react 
against  the  effects  of  the  campaign.  In  certain  quarters 
enthusiasm  had  markedly  died  away;  and  there  were 
many  indications  that  Gleason's  popularity  was  already 
on  the  wane.  For  many  of  the  inhabitants — especially 
those  of  the  residential  section — the  whole  campaign 
260 


The  Reform  Boomerang 

had  been  something  of  a  boomerang.  If  an  honest  vote 
could  be  taken,  Bellamy  believed  they  would  express  their 
contentment  at  having  conditions  the  way  they  were  be- 
fore the  moral  upheaval.  The  reporter  was  convinced 
that  Gleason  was  a  mountebank,  and  that  his  interests 
were  largely  commercial. 

When  he  was  seated  in  front  of  the  evangelist's  desk, 
he  drew  out  the  newspaper  which  contained  a  record 
of  the  sermon  he  had  read  that  afternoon  at  the  office. 

"See  here,  Mr.  Gleason,"  he  began,  a  little  peremp- 
torily. "I'd  like  to  know  the  names  that  you  omitted 
from  this  sermon.  If  what  you  say  here  is  true,  the 
matter  should  be  made  known — unless  there  is  a  good 
reason  for  hiding  it.  It  isn't  altogether  square  to  hide 
behind  innuendoes ;  and  if  you've  got  the  goods,  I  wish 
you'd  let  me  know." 

Gleason  was  taken  aback  by  the  young  man's  ag- 
gressive manner.  He  had  come  to  look  upon  Bellamy  as 
one  of  his  strongest  supporters,  and  he  realised  how 
much  Bellamy's  writings  had  helped  the  cause.  Now  he 
felt  that  the  young  man  had  suffered  a  change  of  heart ; 
and  the  fact  irritated  and  angered  him. 

"I  don't  pull  anything,  son,"  he  answered,  hotly,  "un- 
less I  have  got  the  goods.  And,  another  thing,  I  am 
the  umpire  in  this  campaign — not  you.  I'll  tell  you  just 
what  I  want  to  tell  you — and  no  more.  Get  me?" 

"Suit  yourself,  Gleason,"  Bellamy  answered,  rising. 
"You  may  be  able  to  flim-flam  the  other  citizens  of  this 
town,  but  your  four-flushing  doesn't  get  over  with  me. 
I  got  your  number  the  first  time  I  saw  you.  I  helped 
you  out  in  this  campaign  because  it  was  my  duty  to 
my  paper — not  because  of  any  love  I  bore  you  or  your 
cause.  But  there's  a  lot  of  people  in  this  town  that 

261 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

are  sick  of  your  hypocrisy,  and  I'm  one  of  them.  The 
Star  has  stood  by  you;  but,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned, 
you'll  have  to  get  another  publicity  organ.  I'm  going  to 
tell  the  truth  about  you.  I'm  going  to  lay  you  wide  open 
in  to-morrow's  paper.  I've  called  your  bluff  on  those 
insinuations  in  last  night's  sermon,  and  if  you  don't  want 
to  open  up,  I'll  make  you  open  up.  You'll  be  the  laugh- 
ing stock  of  this  town." 

Gleason  was  red  in  the  face.  His  first  instinct  was 
to  tell  Bellamy  to  get  out  and  do  his  worst.  But,  when 
he  thought  of  what  that  might  mean,  he  forced  his 
diplomacy  to  the  front.  He  did  not  want  to  lose  the 
Star's  support;  he  needed  it  to  cement  the  finish  of  his 
campaign.  The  Star  was  too  influential  to  be  turned 
into  an  enemy  at  just  this  stage  of  the  game. 

"Look  here,  Bellamy,"  he  said  conciliatingly.  "Every- 
body in  Edenburg  will  know  to-night  who  the  guy  is  I 
refer  to.  I'm  saving  it  for  the  blow-off.  That's  why  I 
didn't  want  to  put  you  wise  right  now.  .  .  .  But,  if  you 
think  I'm  bluffing,  listen,  and  I'll  shoot." 

Bellamy  waited  without  a  word. 

"It's  Elijah  Bradshaw!"  Gleason  spoke  the  words 
dramatically,  and  sat  back  to  watch  the  effect  upon  the 
young  man. 

"I've  heard  that  before,"  the  reporter  returned,  un- 
moved. "But  you  know  it's  a  lie,  as  well  as  I  do." 

"A  lie !"  cried  the  other,  starting  to  his  feet.  "It's  a  lie, 
is  it?  Well,  listen  to  me,  and  you'll  learn  something. 
I  got  a  straight  tip  that  Bradshaw  had  a  bad  woman  in 
his  house.  I  didn't  believe  it  till  I  snouted  around  and 
found  out  for  sure.  I  went  to  the  police,  and  they 
verified  the  story.  You  know  this  woman  he's  got  work- 
ing for  him — the  new  one.  Well,  she's  an  old-timer. 
262 


The  Reform  Boomerang 

Every  man  on  the  force  knows  her.  The  Chief  even 
sent  a  guy  around  to  put  Bradshaw  wise,  in  case  he 
didn't  know  it.  Did  Bradshaw  drive  her  away  when 
he  found  out?  Not  that  old  hypocrite!  And  she's  in 
his  house  now.  Judge  Bascomb  knows  about  her.  So 
does  Doc  Smollet;  and  a  whole  lot  of  other  people  in 
town  know  about  her."  He  paused.  "It's  a  wonder 
you  newspaper  men  wouldn't  get  wise,"  he  added.  "If 
I  didn't  know  any  more  about  my  business  than  you 
do  about  yours,  I'd  choke  myself  to  death." 

Bellamy  was  too  stunned  to  reply.  He  had  wondered 
a  little  at  the  presence  of  the  new  maid  in  Bradshaw's 
home,  but  that  there  had  been  anything  irregular  in  her 
being  there  he  had  not  once  imagined.  If  what  Gleason 
had  told  him  just  now  were  true,  he  thought  it  obvious 
that  Bradshaw  did  not  know  the  true  state  of  affairs. 
There  surely  was  some  mistake,  or  some  reasonable 
explanation  for  it;  and  he  determined  to  find  out  what 
he  could  from  Gleason  and  then  make  an  investigation 
of  his  own. 

"What  do  you  propose  doing,  Gleason  ?"  he  asked,  non- 
committally. 

"Well,  I  thougnt  I'd  first  pull  what  I  did  last  night," 
the  evangelist  answered.  "Then  I'd  wait  and  see  if  Brad- 
shaw had  sense  enough  to  get  rid  of  her.  But  he  wasn't 
even  at  the  meeting.  To-night,  son,  I'm  going  to  make 
an  example  of  him.  After  the  meeting  at  the  Tabernacle 
I'm  going  to  lead  a  procession  over  to  Bradshaw's  house. 
I'm  going  to  demand  a  public  explanation.  I'll  show 
'em  how  much  I'm  influenced  by  his  money.  That's 
me!" 

"You'd  better  go  easy,  Gleason,"  Bellamy  warned 
him.  "If  what  you  say  about  Bradshaw  is  true,  you 

263 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

know,  as  well  as  I  do,  that  there's  some  good  reason 
for  what  he's  done." 

"Sure,  there's  a  reason !"  Gleason  answered,  with  sat- 
isfied conviction.  "He's  a  hypocrite.  That's  reason 
enough." 

"When  it  comes  to  hypocrisy,"  Bellamy  said  angrily, 
"you've  got  him  lashed  to  the  mast  twenty  different 
ways." 

With  that,  he  left  the  office.  He  went  direct  to 
Police  Headquarters  to  verify  Gleason's  accusation. 
When  he  discovered  that  there  was  good  cause  for 
the  evangelist's  belief,  he  returned  to  the  Star,  intending 
to  speak  to  Harrison  before  taking  any  action.  There 
he  met  the  Reverend  Smollet. 

"I  was  waiting  for  you,  Mr.  Bellamy,"  Smollet  an- 
nounced, with  repressed  excitement.  "I  don't  know  what 
to  do,  and  I  thought  I'd  talk  the  matter  over  with  you 
before  taking  any  steps.  You're  pretty  close  to  Brad- 
shaw." 

"I  know  what  you  refer  to,"  Bellamy  told  him.  "It's 
the  girl  he  has  in  his  home,  isn't  it?  .  .  .  Well,  how 
do  you  account  for  it?" 

"I  can't,  I  can't,"  replied  the  minister,  in  distress. 
"It  seems  incredible.  I  am  completely  upset.  Ever  since 
Gleason's  sermon  last  night  I  have  been  too  worried 
to  know  what  to  do.  And  now  he  tells  me  that  he  is 
going  to  exhort  Bradshaw  publicly,  that  he  is  going  to 
march  to  his  house  to-night  and  make  a  scene.  Some- 
body ought  to  warn  him.  .  .  .  Only,"  he  added,  "it's  a 
very  delicate  matter.  I  was  thinking  that  maybe  you're 
the  best  person  to  do  it." 

Bellamy  thought  a  moment. 

"I  don't  know  about  that,"  he  remarked  slowly.  "I 
264 


The  Reform  Boomerang 

don't  stand  very  strong  with  Bradshaw.  As  a  matter 
of  fact,  I  think  you'd  be  the  best  one.  My  suggestion 
would  be  that  you  go  to  Bradshaw  at  once  and  find  out 
the  inside  of  this  affair.  Tell  him  what  Gleason  pro- 
poses to  do,  and  see  if  it  can't  be  avoided." 

"I  hate  to  do  it,"  Smollet  answered,  hesitatingly.  "It's 
so  personal  a  matter."  He  frowned  deeply.  "But,  after 
all,  it  may  be  my  duty.  No  one  else  will  tell  him;  and, 
as  you  say,  the  trouble  might  be  averted.  Do  you  really 
think  it's  the  thing  for  me  to  do?" 

"By  all  means,"  the  reporter  assured  him.  "Don't 
waste  a  minute.  See  Bradshaw,  and  then  telephone  me 
if  there  is  anything  I  can  do.  This  oughtn't  to  get  into 
the  newspapers.  It  might  ruin  Bradshaw  and  his 
family." 

"But,  if  it  is  true,"  the  Reverend  Smollet  remarked 
caustically,  "he  deserves  to  be  ruined!  I  can't  under- 
stand a  man  like  him  harbouring  a  woman  of  her  type 
in  his  home.  It's  a  disgrace — a  scandal!  I,  myself, 
would  be  tempted  to  denounce  him  if  he  doesn't  drive 
her  out  at  once.  .  .  .  It's  unspeakable!" 

"I  wouldn't  give  any  snap  judgments,"  Bellamy  told 
him.  "You  are  condemning  him  without  a  trial.  I 
always  thought  that  Christ  taught  mercy  and  forgive- 
ness. Here  you  are  planning  a  man's  ruin  because 
he  does  something  you  don't  like." 

The  Reverend  Smollet  arose  with  injured  dignity. 

"I  act  according  to  my  conscience,"  he  remarked 
coldly.  "There  is  nothing  in  the  Bible  that  says  we 
must  condone  and  harbour  sin.  .  .  .  However,  I  shall 
go  to  him  and  do  what  I  can." 

He  walked  stiffly  down  the  stairs,  and  went  directly  to 
Bradshaw's  house. 

265 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

Bradshaw  was  in  the  library,  plunged  deep  into  a  chair, 
his  head  resting  on  his  hands. 

"My  dear  friend,"  Smollet  began  solicitously,  "I  am 
sorry  to  find  you — like  this." 

"Why  should  I  be  made  to  suffer  this  way  ?"  the  other 
asked  without  looking  up. 

"  'Whom  the  Lord  loveth  He  chasteneth,'  "  the  min- 
ister quoted. 

Bradshaw  now  raised  himself  and  looked  at  the  man 
at  his  side. 

"I  tell  you,  Smollet,"  he  said,  earnestly,  "I  believe 
it's  God's  punishment  for  my  pride,  my  colossal  pride. 
You  don't  know  all  that  I  have  suffered — I  hope  to  God 
you'll  never  know.  My  wife's  collapse  was  only  the 
end  of  a  long  series  of  terrible  misfortunes — all  due 
to  my  pride,  I  tell  you — my  own  smug,  serene,  sanc- 
tified satisfaction  in  my  religion,  which  hasn't  been  reli- 
gion at  all,  but  a  canting  hypocrisy." 

"Don't  say  that,"  Smollet  put  in,  reprovingly. 

"I  do  say  it!"  insisted  the  other.  "I  can  see  it  now. 
I  saw  it  a  few  days  ago  when  I  looked  into  the  face 
of  my  dear,  stricken  wife  and  felt  the  props  fall  from 
under  my  money-made  faith — the  holier-than-thou  kind 
of  religion  that  comes  with  mahogany  pews  and  subsi- 
dised sermons." 

Smollet  was  horrified  at  his  words. 

"I  am  sorry  to  find  you  in  this  frame  of  mind," 
he  commented. 

"So!  You  are  sorry  that  I  found  myself  out,  are 
you?"  Bradshaw  asked,  bitterly.  "Well,  it's  time  I  re- 
alised my  great  mistake." 

"Nonsense,  my  dear  friend,"  the  other  returned,  diplo- 
matically. "You  have  been  the  very  corner-stone  of  our 
266 


The  Reform  Boomerang 

church.  Look  at  the  splendid  revival  which  will  be 
closed  in  a  few  days!  You  were  instrumental  in  bring- 
ing this  great  evangelist  here." 

"Yes,  I  have  written  checks,"  the  other  agreed,  "if 
that  is  what  you  mean;  checks  that  caused  me  no  more 
effort  or  sacrifice  than  if  I  were  to  snap  my  fingers." 

"Thousands  have  been  converted,"  Smollet  insisted, 
making  allowances  for  the  other's  mental  state.  "There 
is  no  need  to  tell  you  what  a  noble  work  has  been 
done." 

Bradshaw  arose  wearily  and  paced  up  and  down  the 
room. 

"If  it's  so,  Smollet,"  he  said,  abstractedly,  "I  am  very 
glad." 

There  was  a  silence.  The  minister  stood  up  nervously 
and  began  laboriously  to  fit  his  fingers  together.  Finally, 
he  looked  at  the  other  man  determinedly. 

"And  now,"  he  began,  in  a  different  tone,  "if  I  may  be 
so  bold,  as  your  pastor,  to  speak  of  a  thing  that  brought 
me  here  to-night.  It's  a  matter  which  brooks  no  de- 
lay." 

Bradshaw  came  to  a  hale  and  listened,  knowing  what 
was  coming. 

"It's  this  young  woman  in  your  household,"  Smollet 
continued.  "I  have  heard " 

"I  know  what  you  have  heard,"  Bradshaw  broke  in, 
angrily.  "You  have  heard  that  she  is  a  poor  unfortu- 
nate who  is  trying  to  redeem  herself  from  a  life  of 
shame.  Well,  Smollet,  it's  true.  There  is  no  need 
to  talk  about  it. 

Smollet  looked  at  him  in  angry  indignation. 

"But  I  marvel  at  your  permitting  her  to  remain  in 
your  home,"  he  answered,  trying  to  control  himself. 

267 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

"Does  it  not  occur  to  you  that  this  woman's  evil  pres- 
ence may  have  been  the  cause  of  your  misfortunes  ?" 

"Smollet,"  the  other  man  replied,  earnestly,  "if  God 
has  rebuked  me  for  doing  an  act  of  simple  kindness, 
then  I  won't  want  His  clemency.  If  God  is  a  bigot,  a 
tyrant,  an  oppressor  of  the  weak,  I  am  sorry  I  ever 
spent  an  hour  in  His  worship.  .  .  .  Now  is  no  time  to 
harangue  me  with  this  matter.  The  woman  is  here, 
and  she  is  the  kind  of  woman  you  think  she  is.  But 
she  stays — and  that's  the  end  of  it." 

Smollet  was  amazed,  but  he  held  himself  well  under 
control. 

"I  must  press  you  to  listen  to  me  further,"  he  re- 
sumed, with  tolerant  earnestness.  "I  had  hoped  to  get 
you  to  take  the  advice  of  your  pastor  without  my  having 
to  present  the  serious  phase  of  the  matter.  You  per- 
haps don't  know  it,  but  your  extraordinary  conduct  has 
been  made  a  sensational  subject  for  gossip  in  certain 
quarters  for  the  past  two  days.  It  promises  to  become 
a  scandal  which,  due  to  your  importance  in  the  com- 
munity, will  assume  alarming  proportions.  Gleason 
knows  of  it,  and  he  went  so  far  last  night  as  to  hint 
broadly  at  it  in  his  sermon  and  to  pray  that  you  might 
be  brought  to  a  realisation  of  your  offence  against  the 
decency  of  the  community." 

Bradshaw  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"He  dared  do  that!" 

"He  dares  do  anything — you  know  that,"  the  minister 
told  him.  "He  stops  at  nothing.  And  just  a  little  while 
ago  I  learned  that  he  plans  to  follow  up  his  meeting 
to-night  by  coming  here  to  exhort  you  publicly.  Mind 
you,  I  do  not  approve  of  everything  this  man  does. 
I  told  you  that  when  we  discussed  bringing  him  here. 
268 


The  Reform  Boomerang 

So  to-night,  unless  I  can  take  him  a  message  from  you, 
he  and  some  of  his  followers  will  halt  in  front  of  your 
house,  and  he  will  demand  that  you  drive  this  woman 
from  your  roof." 

Bradshaw  clenched  his  fist. 

"He  will  demand  it,  will  he?"  His  voice  was  hard, 
and  he  looked  at  the  minister  through  narrowed  lids. 

"That  is  why  I  beseech  you  to  turn  her  out  now," 
Smollet  continued.  "I  want  to  go  back  to  him  and 
tell  him  that  she  has  gone.  You  are  my  friend,  and 
such  a  thing  as  he  proposes  to  do  would  hurt  me 
deeply." 

Bradshaw  did  not  shift  his  position. 

"Turn  this  woman  out,"  he  began,  with  slow  reso- 
lution, "this  woman  who  has  sat  day  and  night  at  the 
bedside  of  my  poor  wife — repay  her  tender  devotion  by 
throwing  her  into  the  street?  Never,  Smollet!  You 
may  go  back  to  Gleason  and  tell  him  that  for  once  Elijah 
Bradshaw  is  going  to  do  the  decent  thing.  He  may  in- 
voke the  divine  wrath  against  me.  He  may  kindle  for 
me  the  fires  of  Hell.  But,  just  so  long  as  I  have  a  roof 
and  this  woman  desires  its  protection,  she  may  stay. 
The  world  holds  little  for  me  now  save  the  thought  of 
my  wife's  tender  devotion.  If  it  were  not  the  sustain- 
ing influence  of  her  virtuous  and  beautiful  life  and  the 
fact  that  she  needs  me  now  more  than  ever,  I  would  end 
it  all,  I  think.  But,  while  I  live,  I  shall  follow  the 
dictates  of  my  own  conscience  and  not  be  bullied  by  this 
hired  exhorter  who  seems,  by  some  strange  coincidence, 
always  to  find  the  fields  fertile  for  soul-saving  where 
they  are  also  fallow  for  dollar-getting." 

When  Smollet  answered,  his  tone  was  cold  and  formal. 

"I  regret  exceedingly  your  alarming  attitude,"  he  said, 

269 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

going  to  the  door,  "and  I  can't  promise  you  what  the 
results  of  your  very  unusual  behaviour  will  be." 

"Don't  spare  me."  Bradshaw  laughed  with  bitterness. 
"You  have  said  that  the  Lord  loveth  whom  He  chas- 
teneth.  Pray,  therefore,  that  He  may  love  me  over- 
much, but  not  more  than  human  endurance  can  stand." 

"Be  assured,  Elijah,  that  I  shall  pray  for  you." 

"And  I  shall  pray  that  your  prayers  may  reach  the 
divine  ear." 

Smollet  opened  the  door. 

"Shall  you  be  with  those  of  our  friends  to-night  who 
will  come  to  disgrace  me?"  Bradshaw  asked. 

"I  shall  be  on  the  side  of  righteousness,"  replied  the 
minister,  as  he  went  out. 

No  sooner  had  he  gone  than  the  telephone  rang. 
Bellamy  had  called  up  to  warn  Bradshaw,  fearing  that 
Smollet  might  have  changed  his  mind  about  doing  so. 

"I  have  heard  about  it,"  Bradshaw  told  him  over  the 
wire.  "But  don't  worry  about  me.  I  shall  meet  them, 
if  it  is  my  last  act  on  earth.  I  have  been  everything 
else  but  a  coward.  I  would  like  to  quit  feeling  that 
at  least  I  am  not  that.  Don't  try  to  do  anything  about 
me,  my  boy.  There  is  no  use.  I  know  that  crowd. 
Haven't  I  been  the  ringleader  of  them?" 

He  hung  up  the  receiver  and  sat  back  in  his  chair 
for  a  long  time,  thinking.  It  had  now  grown  quite  dark. 
The  wind  had  died  down,  and  the  air  outside  was  crisp 
and  still. 

Bradshaw  looked  out  of  the  great  French  window 
which  faced  his  open  front  porch.  He  could  see  the 
houses  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  street  distinctly  sil- 
houetted in  the  cold  moonlight.  The  world  seemed 
serene  now,  although  he  knew  that,  in  a  few  hours, 
270 


The  Reform  Boomerang 

Gleason  and  his  followers  would  invade  the  serenity 
which  had  settled  over  the  world  about  him. 

Otto  came  in  to  turn  on  the  lights,  but  Bradshaw 
restrained  him. 

"I  want  to  be  alone,"  he  said.  "I  won't  have  dinner 
to-night.  You  may  bring  me  some  coffee  in  here.  That 
will  be  all." 

A  little  later  the  Woman  entered  noiselessly  and  was 
about  to  speak  to  the  man,  but  when  she  saw  the  look 
on  his  face,  she  went  out  without  a  word,  returning 
to  the  girl  upstairs. 

"The  time  has  not  yet  come,"  she  told  Elizabeth. 
"Your  father  is  sitting  in  the  library  alone — in  the  dark. 
Something  is  troubling  him  deeply.  Perhaps  it  is  bet- 
ter that  you  wait.  Stay  here  in  your  room.  When 
the  time  comes,  I  will  let  you  know." 


271 


CHAPTER  XVII 

*HE  THAT   IS   WITHOUT   SIN- 


FOR  two  hours  Bradshaw  sat  in  the  darkness.  When 
the  servant  brought  in  the  coffee,  he  paid  no  atten- 
tion. At  half -past  ten  he  arose  and  began  to  walk  up 
and  down.  There  was  in  his  eyes  a  fierce  determina- 
tion. His  jaw  was  set  hard,  and  the  muscles  in  his 
arms  were  rigid.  He  was  like  a  condemned  man  wait- 
ing for  his  execution — a  brave  and  unflinching  man  who 
had  resolved  to  meet  death  courageously  and  with  his 
head  held  high.  There  was  neither  cruelty  nor  aggres- 
siveness in  his  manner,  merely  a  calm  and  unswervable 
determination.  There  was  something  bordering  on  the 
tragic  in  his  bearing;  it  was  the  tragedy  of  the  defeated 
giant  who  bows  at  last  to  the  inevitable,  but  whose  inner 
strength  remains  serene  and  unconquered  to  the  end. 

Many  things  passed  through  his  mind  as  he  walked. 
He  reviewed  the  whole  of  his  life.  In  the  darkness  of 
the  room  he  saw  himself  more  clearly  than  he  had  ever 
done  before,  even  in  the  brilliant  light  of  noonday.  He 
thought  of  his  son,  and  lived  again  the  events  which 
terminated  in  the  boy's  departure.  He  thought  of  his 
daughter  and  of  her  weakness.  He  recalled  the  terrible 
night  when  he  had  found  his  wife  stricken  and  helpless. 
All  the  details  of  the  Woman's  association  with  him 
rushed  back  vividly  across  his  mind. 

There  was  no  rancour  in  his  soul  now.  He  thought 
272 


"He  That  is  Without  Sin—" 

of  the  sorrows  of  the  past  weeks  without  animosity. 
The  weakness  of  those  he  loved  filled  him  with  pity. 
He  became  more  profoundly  conscious  of  his  own 
strength  than  ever  before.  But  it  was  not  the  strength 
which  his  position  in  the  community  gave  him.  Nor 
was  it  the  strength  of  his  money  or  of  his  pride.  It 
was  such  a  strength  as  the  old  martyrs  possessed  when 
they  walked  to  the  stake  with  a  smile  and  laid  down 
their  life — all  they  had  to  give — for  a  belief  and  a 
principle. 

At  a  quarter  of  eleven  there  was  a  sound  of  music 
far  down  the  street  in  the  direction  of  the  Tabernacle 
— a  murmur  and  a  staccato  tramping  of  feet.  As  the 
band  came  nearer,  the  angry  mutterings  of  the  crowd 
grew  more  and  more  distinct.  One  or  two  voices, 
sharper  than  the  rest,  raised  themselves  above  the  mo- 
notonous murmur.  The  sounds  that  came  to  Bradshaw 
were  angry.  They  were  not  the  sounds  of  a  happy 
crowd  rejoicing  at  some  victory,  but  the  growling  of 
the  beast  of  prey  filled  with  a  lust  for  blood. 

Bradshaw  came  to  a  sudden  halt.  He  drew  himself 
up  straight  and  squared  his  shoulders. 

The  old  servant  came  into  the  room  hurriedly. 

"What  is  it,  sir  ?    What  is  it  ?"  he  asked,  excitedly. 

"Pull  those  shades  quickly,  Otto!"  Bradshaw  com- 
manded. 

The  man  obeyed  with  trembling  hands. 

"Now,  bring  me  my  revolver  from  the  cabinet.  My 
friends  are  paying  me  a  call." 

Otto  hesitated,  but  then  did  as  he  was  told. 

"My  God!  What  is  it,  sir?"  he  asked,  as  he  handed 
Bradshaw  the  weapon. 

"Nothing  for  you  to  worry  about,  Otto,  my  man," 

273 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

Bradshaw  told  him.  "Now,  go  to  the  rear  of  the  house 
and  stay  there.  If  I  need  you,  I  will  ring.  There  may 
be — some  danger  in  this  room." 

The  crowd  drew  nearer.  Their  footsteps  echoed  along 
the  street.  The  band  was  playing  one  of  Gleason's  fa- 
vourite songs,  "The  Brewer's  Big  Horses." 

Bradshaw  stood  by  the  desk  and  listened.  He  could 
hear  Gleason's  lusty  voice  leading  them,  and  now  the 
words  of  the  chorus  came  to  him  distinctly. 

The  Woman  came  into  the  room  and  leaned  against 
the  mantel,  her  hands  clasped  tightly  on  her  breast, 
her  lips  blown  apart  by  her  quickened  breathing. 

"I  knew  they  would  come !  I  knew  they  would  come!", 
she  cried  fearfully.  "They  have  come  for  me — they  have 
come  to  stone  me !" 

Bradshaw  turned  to  her.  The  red  glow  of  the  fire 
fell  on  her  face,  and  to  the  man  it  seemed  that  she  had 
never  been  so  beautiful. 

"Let  them  try!"  he  said  challengingly  and  with  reso- 
lution. 

He  glanced  down  at  the  pistol  in  his  hand,  and  turned 
the  cylinder  to  make  sure  it  was  loaded. 

The  crowd  was  now  outside  his  house.  The  band 
was  still  playing,  and  all  the  voices  seemed  to  have 
caught  up  the  militant  chorus. 

At  the  end  of  the  last  line  a  stentorian  voice  cried, 
"Silence!"  It  was  Gleason's  voice,  and  the  crowd  be- 
came still. 

"My  friends,"  Gleason  ordered,  "stop  here  a  while. 
This  is  the  home  of  Elijah  Bradshaw.  .  .  ." 

The  angry  mutterings   of   the   crowd   recommenced. 
Words  and  phrases  detached  themselves  from  the  gen- 
eral noise. 
274 


"He  That  is  Without  Sin—" 

"Ah-h-h!" 

"Bradshaw !    Bradshaw !" 

"Come  out!" 

"Say!    Where's  your  manners  ?" 

"Come  out  and  show  yourself!" 

"Don't  be  backward!" 

"Ho,  Bradshaw!" 

"We're  your  friends!" 

Again  the  voice  of  Gleason  took  the  ascendancy,  and 
the  crowd  became  silent. 

"Elijah  Bradshaw,  the  city's  most  illustrious  back- 
slider !"  Gleason  went  on  loudly.  "Judas  bought  a  ticket 
to  Hell  for  thirty  pieces  of  silver.  Bradshaw  here  has 
bought  his  ticket,  and  he's  paid  his  price.  Judas  was 
the  arch  traitor  of  his  town — Bradshaw  is  the  arch 
traitor  of  his.  From  a  leader  of  the  Hosts  of  God  he 
has  fallen  into  the  abyss  of  sin.  At  this  moment  he 
is  harbouring  under  his  roof  an  unspeakable  creature 
with  Hell's  seal  upon  her." 

The  excited  crowd,  inflamed  by  the  fervour  of  the 
evangelist's  words,  began  calling  and  yelling  again. 

"Send  her  out!" 

"Bradshaw— the  Judas !" 

"Shame!" 

"Come  out,  you  traitor!" 

Once  more  Gleason's  angry  voice  overpowered  them, 
and  they  were  subdued. 

"Let  him  hide  in  the  shadow  of  his  own  infamy," 
cried  Gleason.  "And,  while  he  is  in  hiding,  let  us  pause 
a  moment  to  pray  that  this  man  may  be  snatched  like 
a  brand  from  the  burning." 

He  raised  his  arms  and  looked  up  passionately  at 
the  stars. 

275 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

"Dear  God,"  he  began,  "incline  Thine  ear  as  we  be- 
seech Thee " 

Up  to  this  point  Bradshaw  had  listened  without  a 
word.  He  had  not  been  visible  to  those  outside,  nor 
had  he  been  able  to  see  them.  When  Gleason  began 
to  pray,  however,  he  rushed  to  the  window  and  spread 
the  curtains.  Then  he  threw  open  the  glass  doors  and 
stood  out  upon  the  porch,  facing  the  crowd. 

"Stop!"  he  commanded.  "We  need  no  prayers  of 
yours."  His  voice  was  louder  than  Gleason's. 

The  crowd  forgot  the  evangelist's  praying  and  turned 
to  the  accused  man. 

"Ah,  Bradshaw!" 

"There  he  is!" 

"That's  him!" 

"There's  Judas  now !" 

"Bradshaw!    Bradshaw!" 

Bradshaw  was  calm.  He  stepped  toward  the 
crowd. 

"Well,  what  do  you  want  with  me?"  he  asked. 

The  cries  died  down  to  inarticulate  murmurs.  Some- 
thing in  the  man's  manner  affected  them  with  reverence. 
He  had  always  commanded  their  respect,  and  now  they 
felt  again  the  power  of  his  personality. 

Bradshaw  scanned  their  faces  for  a  moment. 

"Ah,  Barnes!"  he  called,  pointing  to  one  of  the 
men.  .  .  .  "And  Jennings!  And  Stillman!  All  my 
friends!  .  .  .  And  Smollet,  too!" 

He  had  caught  sight  of  the  minister  standing  near 
the  evangelist. 

Gleason  had  by  this  time  recovered  himself.     He  had 
felt  that  his  hold  on  the  crowd  had  gone  temporarily, 
but  now  he  stepped  toward  Bradshaw. 
276 


"He  That  is  Without  Sin—" 

"Never  mind  them!"  he  cried.  "The  woman — let  her 
stand  forth!"  His  domineering  voice  inspired  his  fol- 
lowers with  a  new  confidence.  They  had  swayed  away 
from  him  for  the  moment,  but  they  were  again  on  his 
side,  and  caught  up  his  remarks. 

"Never  mind  them!" 

"The  woman!    The  woman!" 

"Let  her  stand  forth !" 

"The  woman!" 

Bradshaw  eyed  them  unflinchingly.  He  waited  a  mo- 
ment for  their  voices  to  die  down. 

"She  shall  not !"  he  then  answered.  "This  is  my  home, 
Gleason."  He  pointed  a  threatening  finger  at  the  evan- 
gelist. "And  I  want  you  to  go  before  I  send  you  and 
some  of  your  saintly  crew  to  face  the  God  you  talk 
to  so  glibly." 

"The  nearer  we  get  to  God,"  answered  Gleason 
angrily,  "the  more  elbow-room,  and  the  smaller  the 
crowd.  Send  the  woman  out!" 

The  voices  broke  forth  again.  The  crowd's  excita- 
tion had  been  rising  rapidly.  A  frenzy  seemed  to  have 
swept  over  it.  It  had  become  cruel  and  hysterical,  and 
was  dominated  by  the  spirit  of  the  mob. 

"Yes,  send  her  out!" 

"Send  out  the  woman !" 

"Where  is  she  ?" 

Elizabeth  had  sat  at  her  window  upstairs  watching 
what  was  going  on  below.  At  first  she  had  not  under- 
stood. When  Gleason  and  his  band  had  first  come  to 
the  house,  she  had  thought  it  was  some  friendly  demon- 
stration. But  when  the  evangelist  had  begun  to  accuse 
her  father,  she  was  seized  with  fright.  She  wanted 
to  go  down  to  him,  but  was  afraid. 

277 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

When  the  voices  in  the  crowd  had  become  louder  and 
angrier,  she  at  last  slipped  tremblingly  down  the  dark 
stairway.  Slowly  she  crossed  the  room.  She  had  not 
seen  the  Woman,  nor  had  she  been  seen.  She  knew 
there  was  nothing  she  could  do;  and  yet,  some  instinct 
of  protection  drew  her  to  the  man  on  the  porch.  She 
was  white  and  trembling.  Her  hair  was  down  her  back, 
and  she  wore  a  loose  dressing  gown  which  fell  in  long 
folds  about  her. 

She  came  to  her  father  and  knelt  down  behind 
him. 

When  those  in  the  crowd  saw  her  dimly  in  the  shad- 
owy light,  they  mistook  her  for  the  woman  they  had 
come  for. 

A  sudden  burst  of  anger  arose  from  them,  as  from 
a  single  throat. 

"There  she  is!    There  she  is!" 

"There's  the  woman!" 

"For  shame,  Bradshaw !" 

Then  some  one  in  the  crowd  raised  his  roice  abore 
the  others. 

"Stone  her!" 

The  others  in  the  crowd  caught  up  the  words  excit- 
edly. 

"Yes!    Stone  her!    Stone  her!" 

A  missile  crashed  through  the  window  opposite  Brad- 
shaw. Then  another,  and  another. 

The  girl  screamed  and  caught  hold  of  her  father. 

He  put  his  left  arm  before  his  face,  and  with  the 
other  he  raised  the  revolver  he  was  holding  behind 
him.  A  stone  struck  him  on  the  breast.  He  winced 
with  pain,  but  did  not  step  back. 

There  was  a  general  clamour  and  angry  calls.  Soon 
278 


"He  That  is  Without  Sin—" 

other  windows  crashed,  and  a  heavy  missile  flew  into 
the  room  and  broke  a  vase  on  the  desk. 

Bradshaw  levelled  his  revolver  at  the  evangelist. 

"Pray  now,  Gleason!"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  voice  which 
trembled  far  out  into  the  night  above  the  calls  and  hoot- 
ings  of  the  crowd.  "And  this  time  for  your- 
self!" 

Elizabeth  sprang  to  her  feet  and  caught  her  father's 
arm  in  both  her  hands,  pulling  it  down  to  his  side. 

At  the  sight  of  the  revolver  the  crowd  had  stood 
back,  awestruck. 

When  there  was  no  report  Gleason  laughed. 

"So  you  thought  to  frighten  me!"  he  called  trium- 
phantly. "Ah,  my  friends,  the  Word  of  God  is  mightier 
than  all  the  hosts  of  sin." 

The  crowd  recovered  from  its  shock  and  began  call- 
ing again. 

"Send  the  woman  out !" 

"Shame!" 

"Why  didn't  you  shoot,  Bradshaw?" 

"Coward!" 

"Make  her  come  out !" 

"Stone  her!     Stone  her!" 

Bradshaw  stepped  a  little  to  one  side,  that  he  might 
better  protect  the  crouching  figure  behind  him,  whose 
hands  still  tightly  clutched  his  arm.  Then  he  raised  his 
free  hand  above  his  head,  and  looked  out  fearlessly. 

"Stop!"  he  ordered.  "I  command  you  in  the  words 
of  Christ!" 

A  hush  fell  over  the  crowd  at  the  name  which  Brad- 
shaw had  uttered.  Their  frenzy  had  been  a  religious 
one,  and  this  appeal  had  touched  the  deepest  spring^ 
of  their  actions. 

279 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

"The  Word  of  God  is  mightier  than  all  the  hosts  of 
sin!"  exclaimed  Bradshaw,  repeating  Gleason's  own 
words.  "Therefore,  I  call  to  you  in  Christ's  own 
words — 'Let  him  among  you  who  is  without  sin  first  cast 
a  stone  at  her.' " 

He  stood  majestically  confronting  the  mob. 

For  a  moment  there  was  no  response.  Then  there 
began  low  murmurs,  but  they  were  not  the  murmurs  of 
anger,  but  of  uneasiness.  The  hysteria  of  the  crowd  had 
been  spent.  A  reaction  had  settled  over  them. 

A  shrill  voice  called  out:  "Come  on,  Jimmy!  Can't 
you  see  he's  beat  you  at  your  own  game  ?" 

There  were  sounds  of  approval.  Other  voices 
joined  in. 

"Ha !    He  got  you  that  time." 

"Good  for  Bradshaw!" 

"What  have  you  got  to  say  now,  Jimmy?" 

Gleason,  confused  by  this  sudden  change  of  events, 
hesitated.  Then  he  turned  to  the  crowd  with  his  old 
self-confidence. 

"Come  on  over  to  the  Tabernacle,"  he  called  out  dic- 
tatorially.  "We'll  pray  for  him  there,  though  I  think 
he's  past  redemption." 

He  took  a  step  forward,  and  the  crowd  began  to  move 
with  him,  following  by  blind  instinct  their  leader. 

"Quit  shoving!" 

"Who's  shoving?" 

"You  are." 

"Get  off  that  flower  bed!" 

"What's  the  matter  with  the  band?" 

"Spiel,  can't  you?" 

"Hey,  what's  your  hurry?" 

Gleason  called  angrily  to  the  musicians. 
280 


"He  That  is  Without  Sin—" 

"Are  you  hypnotised,  you  fellows  ?  Toot  her  up  there, 
and  be  quick  about  it !" 

At  once  the  bank  struck  up  the  tune  they  had  been 
playing  earlier  in  the  evening.  The  crowd  fell  into 
step  and  marched  down  the  street,  some  muttering,  others 
laughing,  still  others  silent. 

The  noise  grew  fainter  and  fainter  in  the  distance. 
Bradshaw  stood  at  the  window  and  listened. 

When  the  sounds  had  died  away,  he  turned  slowly. 
He  slipped  the  revolver  in  his  pocket,  and  put  both 
his  hands  on  the  head  of  the  kneeling  figure.  Then  he 
raised  her  slowly  to  her  feet.  The  room  was  dark  and 
he  could  not  see  her  face.  He  thought  it  was  the 
Woman  before  him,  and  led  her  tenderly  to  the  desk. 

"You  see,  I  would  not  let  them  harm  you,"  he  said 
gently.  "I  was  ready  to  protect  you  with  my  own 
life." 

The  girl  did  not  speak.  Both  hands  were  pressed 
close  to  her  face,  and  she  was  sobbing  audibly. 

Bradshaw  switched  on  the  desk  lamp  and  drew  the 
girl's  head  back,  that  he  might  look  into  her  face. 

Then,  for  the  first  time,  he  saw  who  she  was.  He 
realised  that,  all  the  time,  he  had  not  been  protecting 
the  Woman,  but  his  young  daughter. 

For  a  moment  he  could  not  speak  through  sheer  won- 
der and  amazement.  Then  something  inside  of  him 
seemed  to  burst,  and  a  great  wave  of  tenderness  swept 
through  his  whole  body. 

"Bess — my  daughter!  My  own  little  girl!"  he  cried. 
"I  thought — I  didn't  know — my  baby!" 

He  clasped  her  to  his  breast  with  such  overpowering 
love  as  he  had  never  felt  for  her  before,  and  she  clung 
to  him,  weeping  bitterly. 

281 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

"There!  I  know — I  know,"  he  consoled  her.  "You 
have  come  back  to  me — and  you  shall  stay  with  me — my 
baby  girl." 

He  looked  about  the  room  for  the  Woman,  but  she 
had  gone. 

"And  you  forgive  me?"  the  girl  sobbed. 

Bradshaw  held  her  very  close  to  him  and  kissed  her. 

"Yes,  I  forgive  you,"  he  said,  and  his  voice  shook. 
"May  God  forgive  you  as  I  do." 

He  sat  down  and  drew  her  to  his  knees,  holding  her 
in  his  arms  as  he  might  have  held  a  baby. 

When  her  weeping  had  ceased,  he  arose  and  led  her 
to  the  stairway. 

"And  now,"  he  said,  kissing  her  again,  "go  to  your 
room — your  old  room.  We  shall  begin  anew — and  all 
the  past  will  be  forgotten.  .  .  .  Good  night,  my  little 
child." 

She  looked  up  into  his  eyes  with  calm  and  ineffable 
happiness,  and  went  slowly  up  the  stairs. 

Bradshaw  sat  down  at  his  desk.  He  was  a  different 
man  now.  The  many  tendencies  which  had  been  at  work 
in  him  during  the  last  two  weeks  had  been  unified  by 
the  event  of  that  night.  He  realised  how  little  his 
former  life  had  meant  to  him.  Somehow,  he  did  not 
care  what  the  world  thought  of  him,  or  what  the  pa- 
pers would  publish  on  the  morrow.  He  felt  more  secure 
than  ever  before,  for  now  his  security  came  from  within, 
not  from  without. 

He  rang  the  bell,  and  in  a  moment  Otto  came  in,  trem- 
bling and  white  with  fright. 

"It's  all  right,  Otto,"  Bradshaw  said.    "There  is  noth- 
ing to  fear  now.     They  have  gone  away.     Close  the 
windows  and  draw  the  shades." 
282 


"He  That  is  Without  Sin—" 

The  servant  did  as  he  was  bidden.  He  picked  up 
the  pieces  of  broken  glass  and  gathered  up  the  debris 
from  the  desk  where  the  vase  had  been  broken. 

"Is  that  all?"  he  asked. 

"Yes.  You  may  go  to  bed  now,"  Bradshaw  told  him ; 
and  even  Otto  was  conscious  of  a  tone  in  his  master's 
voice,  which  he  had  never  heard  before. 

He  was  about  to  leave,  when  some  one  knocked  at  the 
front  door. 

It  was  Bellamy. 

The  young  man  walked  in,  hurriedly,  without  waiting 
to  be  announced. 

"What  happened,  Mr.  Bradshaw  ?"  he  asked  excitedly. 
"Tell  me  everything.  I've  got  to  say  something  about 
it  in  the  paper — only,  God  knows,  I  wish  I  didn't  have 
to." 

"Say  whatever  you  choose,  my  boy,"  the  older  man 
replied,  with  grave  serenity.  "It  makes  no  difference. 
I  feel  happier  now  than  ever  in  my  life  before." 

Bellamy  looked  at  him  wonderingly. 

"You  see,"  Bradshaw  went  on,  "I  had  everything  sized 
up  wrong  before.  It  isn't  what  people  say  about  you 
that  matters — it  isn't  even  what  they  think  of  you.  It's 
what  you  feel  here."  And  he  struck  his  breast  with  his 
hand. 

The  reporter  waited. 

"Gleason  came,"  the  other  man  continued.  "He  tried 
to  bully  me,  and  the  crowd  demanded  that  I  send  the 
woman  out  to  them.  But  I  defied  them,  and  quoted  the 
words  of  Christ  to  them;  and  they  went  away." 

"What  did  you  say  ?"  Bellamy  asked,  in  an  awed  voice. 

"I  said :  'Let  him  who  is  without  sin  among  you  cast 
the  first  stone  at  her.'  " 

283 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

"You  said  that!"  Bellamy  cried,  in  happy  admiration. 

Then  his  newspaper  instinct  rose  uppermost. 

"My  God !    What  a  story  that  will  make!" 

"Don't  spare  me,  my  boy,"  Bradshaw  told  him.  "I  can 
bear  it  now.  .  .  .  This  will  be  a  fight  worth  while." 

"Don't  spare  you!"  repeated  the  reporter,  surprised. 
"Why,  man,  I'll  make  you  the  hero  of  this  city.  Already 
the  tide  has  begun  to  turn  against  Gleason.  This  story 
will  be  the  end  of  him.  You've  done  the  biggest  thing 
that  any  one  in  this  city  has  ever  done  before — you've 
won  the  biggest  victory.  To-morrow  there  won't  be  a 
man  or  woman  that  reads  the  Star  who  won't  thank  God 
that  they  know  you.  .  .  .  Leave  that  to  me — I  know  how 
to  write  a  story.  All  this  other  stuff  of  mine  has  been 
insincere.  Now,  for  the  first  time,  I  can  put  my  heart 
into  it." 

"And  the  woman?"  asked  Bradshaw. 

"Why,  Mr.  Bradshaw,"  Bellamy  exclaimed  enthusi- 
astically, "that  will  be  the  big  climax  in  the  story !  When 
I  tell  these  people  that  you  have  taken  her  into  your 
house  to  try  to  help  her  instead  of  hounding  her  out 
of  town,  they'll  learn  a  lesson  in  Christian  sympathy 
that  they  never  thought  possible  before.  And  to  think 
that  you  protected  her  against  the  vicious  cruelty  of 
Gleason's  mob!  They'll  love  and  admire  you  for  it." 

He  leaped  to  his  feet. 

"I  must  run  along  and  get  to  work.  This  is  almost 
too  good  to  be  true !" 

He  went  out  hurriedly.  He  hailed  the  first  taxicab 
he  saw,  and  drove  to  the  other  newspaper  offices.  He 
went  to  the  City  Editors  who  knew  him  and  liked  him. 
He  told  them  the  story  from  his  own  point  of  view. 
They  listened  with  keen  interest.  Like  the  majority 
284 


"He  That  is  Without  Sin—" 

of  newspaper  men  who  had  had  practical  experience 
with  vice  conditions,  they  were  not  any  too  strongly  in- 
clined toward  Gleason's  methods,  and  were  glad  of  an 
opportunity  in  the  form  of  a  straight  news  story  which 
would  tend  to  reflect  unpleasantly  on  the  evangelist. 

The  wheels  having  thus  been  set  in  motion,  Bellamy 
rushed  to  his  office  and  set  to  work  with  an  energy  he 
had  rarely  displayed  before. 


285 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

IN  A   MYSTERIOUS   WAY 

THE  following  morning  the  newspapers  with  one  ac- 
cord commended  Bradshaw's  action.  They  did  not 
deprecate  Gleason,  except  by  intimations ;  but  there  were 
few  men  in  the  city  whose  sympathies  were  not  with 
Bradshaw.  Heretofore  his  actions  had  nerer  been  ques- 
tioned ;  eren  those  who  disagreed  with  him  respected 
his  sincerity.  They  remembered  Edenburg's  debt  to  him. 
They  remembered,  too,  his  past  conduct,  his  honesty, 
his  uprightness ;  and  while  there  were  some  who,  on  read- 
ing the  stories  in  the  morning's  papers,  questioned  the 
wisdom  of  his  act  in  taking  a  woman  of  the  streets 
into  his  home,  they  did  not  doubt  for  a  moment  his 
good  faith. 

As  Bellamy  had  told  Bradshaw,  the  tide  against  Glea- 
son had  begun  to  turn.  The  conditions  which  the 
evangelist  had  brought  about  through  his  moral  cam- 
paign had  not  been,  from  a  civil  point  of  view,  alto- 
gether satisfactory.  Adverse  criticism  had  been  grow- 
ing rapidly  during  the  few  days  preceding  Gleason's 
procession  to  the  merchant's  home.  The  more  cynical 
citizens  of  Edenburg  laughed  at  the  evangelist's  defeat, 
and  even  the  members  of  the  Citizens'  Committee,  along 
with  those  who  had  contributed  to  his  campaign,  ad- 
mired Bradshaw  for  his  act. 

As  early  as  half-past  eight  that  morning,  prominent 
286 


In  a  Mysterious  Way 

men  and  women  of  the  city  began  calling  Bradshaw 
by  telephone  to  express  their  approval  and  admiration 
for  what  he  had  done.  Several  of  them  asked  him  if 
he  would  advise  them  to  follow  the  same  course  and 
attempt  a  similar  reformation  of  some  woman  of  the 
Tenderloin.  They  said  that,  if  he  was  willing  to  take 
such  a  woman  into  his  home,  they  would  be  glad  to 
follow  his  example. 

"I  have  come  to  the  conclusion,"  he  answered  them, 
"that  there  is  too  much  cruelty,  and  too  little  charity, 
in  our  former  method  of  driving  these  women  out  of 
town.  As  to  what  should  be  done — that  I  will  leave 
to  your  own  conscience.  The  whole  problem  is  so  com- 
plex that  the  most  we  can  do  is  to  experiment." 

As  he  sat  in  the  library,  waiting  for  breakfast  to  be 
announced,  the  door  opened,  and  Martha  Bradshaw,  sup- 
ported by  the  Woman,  entered  the  room. 

The  man  leapt  to  his  feet  with  a  cry  of  joy. 

"Martha !"  he  exclaimed.    "What  miracle  is  this  ?" 

"It  is  no  miracle,"  the  Woman  answered.  "The  only 
miracle  is  in  the  change  of  your  own  heart." 

Bradshaw  remembered  the  doctor's  words — that  his 
wife's  condition  was  due  to  some  terrible  shock,  and 
that,  were  her  mind  relieved  of  its  tragic  suffering,  her 
recovery  might  be  assured. 

He  crossed  the  room  and  took  his  wife  in  his  arms. 
She  was  still  very  weak.  Her  face  was  white  and 
drawn  and  she  could  stand  only  with  support.  He 
carried  her  to  a  large  chair  and  placed  her  in  it  tenderly, 
kneeling  down  by  her  side,  his  arms  still  about  her. 

There  were  tears  in  Martha  Bradshaw's  eyes. 

"My  little  girl  has  come  back  to  me,"  she  said.  "She 
is  safe,  and  I  am  happy.  When  I  saw  her,  a  great 

287 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

weight  seemed  to  lift  from  my  body  and  from  my  mind. 
It  was  as  if  I  had  been  bound  down  by  heavy  shackles 
which  fell  from  me  at  the  sight  of  her.  ...  I  am  so 
happy!  I  know  now  I  shall  get  well.  ...  If  only  my 
son  were  here,  too !" 

She  turned  to  the  Woman. 

"And  you  have  been  so  good  to  me,"  Martha  Brad- 
shaw  said  to  her.  "I  haven't  been  able  to  thank  you 
before."  She  smiled  sadly.  "Oh,  Elijah!  If  you  only 
knew  how  tender  and  solicitous  she  has  been  during  all 
my  helplessness!" 

She  put  her  arms  around  the  kneeling  man. 

"And  last  night!"  she  went  on.  "That  made  me 
happier " 

"You  heard?  You  know?"  Bradshaw  asked,  in  sur- 
prise. 

"How  could  I  help  it?"  she  replied.  "I  lay  in  bed 
and  prayed  that  you  would  do  just  what  you  did." 

The  man  could  not  speak  for  a  moment.  He  looked 
first  at  his  wife,  and  then  at  the  Woman  who  stood 
near  him,  with  her  head  bowed. 

"I  am  glad,"  was  all  he  could  say. 

At  that  moment  the  doctor  arrived.  During  Mrs. 
Bradshaw's  illness  he  had  called  regularly  each  morn- 
ing. When  he  saw  her  now,  he  did  not  seem  surprised, 
but  came  to  her  and  held  out  his  hand. 

"Doctors  are  not  much  good,  after  all,"  he  said  pleas- 
antly. "I  told  you,  Bradshaw,  that  she  would  only 
get  well  if  we  could  discover  and  rectify  the  cause 
of  the  shock." 

Then  he  assumed  his  professional  air. 

"But,  you  must  be  very  careful,"  he  said,  turning 
again  to  Mrs.  Bradshaw.  "Rest  as  much  as  you  can. 
288 


In  a  Mysterious  Way 

Naturally,  the  shock  has  racked  your  system,  and  it 
will  take  some  time  for  you  to  recover  completely.  I'll 
come  in  every  day  or  two  and  see  that  you  are  mind- 
ing me." 

He  then  turned  to  the  Woman. 

"You  have  been  very  good  and  very  careful,"  he  said. 
"I  was  going  to  send  a  trained  nurse,  but  I  believe  you 
have  been  even  better  than  she  would  have  been." 

He  shook  hands  with  Bradshaw,  and  went  out. 

"Where  is  Elizabeth  now?"  the  mother  asked,  when 
he  had  gone. 

"She  will  be  down  very  soon,"  the  Woman  told  her. 
"I  heard  her  moving  about  her  room  when  we  passed 
it." 

"Tell  her  to  make  haste,"  Bradshaw  said,  and  his 
voice  was  very  gentle.  "We  shall  all  have  breakfast 
together." 

An  hour  later  the  Reverend  Smollet  rang. 

"Bradshaw,"  he  said  humbly,  "I  have  come  to  offer 
you  my  apologies.  Last  night  you  taught  me  something 
— me,  who  was  supposed  to  be  a  teacher  of  His  word. 
You  opened  my  eyes  to  a  Christian  point  of  view  which, 
I  regret  to  say,  I  had  lost  sight  of.  Your  conduct  was 
splendid — noble!  You  were  in  the  right,  and  I  am 
ashamed  to  think  that  I  was  allied  against  you  with  Glea- 
son.  I  have  spent  most  of  the  night  in  prayer  and  in 
contemplation  of  what  you  said  and  did.  ...  I  had  my 
sermon  all  prepared  for  this  morning,  but  I  am  going 
to  change  it.  I  am  going  to  take  my  text  from  your 
words  last  night:  'Let  him  who  is  without  sin  among 
you  first  cast  a  stone  at  her.'  And  I  shall  tell  what  I 
saw  and  what  happened.  I  shall  make  it  a  personal  ser- 
mon. And  I  shall  confess  the  unworthiness  of  my  own 

289 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

conduct  last  night.  I  shall  make  the  people  who  hear 
me  realise,  more  than  they  do  now,  the  great  lesson 
in  Christian  charity  which  you  have  taught  them.  I  am 
on  my  way  to  services  now,  but  I  could  not  refrain 
from  dropping  in  and  telling  you  this.  .  .  .  Will  you  at- 
tend this  morning?" 

Bradshaw  hesitated. 

"Not  this  morning,  Smollet,"  he  said.  "I  want  to 
stay  with  my  dear  wife  and  my  daughter.  You  see, 
Smollet,  the  Lord  chasteneth  whom  He  loveth,  but  He 
also  rewards  us.  Mrs.  Bradshaw  was  able  to  come  down- 
stairs this  morning.  The  doctor  was  here,  and  he  said 
that  her  complete  recovery  would  be  but  a  matter  of 
a  short  time." 

The  minister  was  deeply  moved. 

"Wonderful!"  he  exclaimed.  "I  am  happy  beyond 
words.  That,  too,  shall  go  into  my  sermon.  .  .  .  Ah, 
Bradshaw!  we  never  grow  so  old  that  we  cannot  learn 
more  of  His  infinite  mercy." 

"But  no  man,  I  believe,  Smollet,"  Bradshaw  replied 
earnestly,  "has  learned  as  much  as  I  have  during  these 
last  two  weeks.  I  have  changed  from  the  very  founda- 
tion. I  have  found  how  narrow,  even  despicable,  my  life 
has  been.  The  values  I  attached  to  things  were  all 
false.  I  have  been  hard  and  unforgiving.  There  has 
been  no  charity  in  my  soul — no  leniency  or  compassion 
in  my  heart.  I  have  worshipped  at  the  feet  of  false 
gods.  .  .  .  But  that  is  all  over  now.  I  realise  that  my 
misfortunes  have  been  of  my  own  making,  that  it  was 
I  who  brought  disaster,  not  only  on  myself,  but  on  those 
I  loved.  My  house  has  been  cursed.  .  .  .  Do  you  re- 
member the  letter  I  showed  you  some  time  ago  from 
a  young  girl  who  had  been  thrown  out  into  the  streets  ? 
290 


In  a  Mysterious  Way 

...  It  frightened  me,  although  I  am  not  superstitious; 
and  when  my  sorrows  came  to  me,  I  was  inclined  to 
think  that  this  girl  was  directing  some  sinister  powers 
against  me.  But  now  I  know  that  the  germ  of  her 
curse  was  in  my  own  blood,  that  my  own  harshness  and 
blindness  brought  about  my  misfortunes." 

When  the  minister  had  gone,  Bradshaw  went  in  to 
his  wife.  Few  words  passed  between  them ;  words  were 
unnecessary  to  express  the  peace  and  happiness  which 
both  of  them  felt. 

When,  later,  she  had  gone  to  her  room  to  lie  down,  the 
Woman  came  in  to  Bradshaw. 

"What  about  your  son  ?"  she  asked  him. 

"My  son?"    The  man  looked  at  her  wonderingly. 

"Can  you  not  forgive  him,  too?"  the  Woman  asked, 
in  a  pleading  voice. 

Bradshaw  studied  her  for  a  moment. 

"It  was  because — of  what — he  did  to  you "  he  be- 
gan. 

"Oh,  but,  you  see,  I  understand,"  the  Woman  said. 
"And  because  I  understand,  I  forgave  him.  Your  son 
is  not  bad.  He  sinned  because  of  his  tenderness  and 
love  for  the  girl." 

"If  he  loved  her  so,"  Bradshaw  demanded,  "how 
could  he  have " 

"He  saw  in  me  the  girl  he  loved,"  the  Woman  ex- 
plained. "He  saw  in  my  eyes  her  look,  just  as  you 
saw  in  my  eyes  the  look  of  the  woman  you  loved  long 
ago." 

"I  don't  understand  it  all,"  Bradshaw  commented 
in  a  low,  awe-struck  voice.  "It  all  seems  so  strange." 

"But  7  understand,"  the  Woman  went  on,  "and  that's 
why  I  want  you  to  forgive  him.  You  must  believe  me 

291 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

when  I  tell  you  that  he  loves  this  girl,  and  that  she 
needs  him.  She  is  only  a  child,  like  your  own  daughter. 
She  has  already  suffered  much.  Her  misfortunes  were 
not  of  her  own  making." 

"What  do  you  want  me  to  do?"  the  man  asked. 

"I  want  you  to  send  for  him,"  the  Woman  replied. 
"You  know  where  he  is.  He  has  written  to  you.  .  .  . 
Tell  me,  what  is  he  doing — how  is  he?" 

"He  is  working  hard,"  Bradshaw  answered.  "I  be- 
lieve he  is  trying  to  do  the  best  he  can." 

"I  knew  it!  I  knew  it!"  the  Woman  said.  "I  told 
you  he  was  not  bad.  And  is  he  not  sorry  for  the  suf- 
ferings he  has  caused  you?" 

"Yes,"  the  man  admitted.  "He  says  he  is  very 
sorry." 

"Then  you  will  send  for  him,  won't  you  ?"  she  pleaded. 
"He  will  be  happier  here.  He,  too,  has  learned  a  lesson. 
And  you  can  help  him.  He  would  be  better  off  here, 
near  you." 

Bradshaw  looked  into  the  Woman's  eyes  for  a  mo- 
ment. He  found  it  impossible  to  resist  her  request; 
and,  deep  in  his  heart,  he  was  glad  of  his  inability  to 
do  so. 

"I  will  send  for  him,"  the  man  said. 

"Thank  you,"  the  other  answered  simply,  as  if  he 
had  performed  some  personal  favour  for  her. 

At  noon  that  day,  Bellamy  came  to  the  house.  Brad- 
shaw greeted  him  heartily. 

"Thank  you,  my  boy,"  he  said,  "for  what  you  did. 
It  was  more  than  I  could  have  expected.  Last  night 
I  thought  the  entire  town  would  turn  against  me — that 
I  would  be  disgraced." 

"That's  what  made  your  conduct  so  fine,"  the  reporter 
292 


In  a  Mysterious  Way 

answered  admiringly,  shaking  the  other's  hand.  "But  I 
told  you  that  I  would  make  a  hero  of  you — that  is," 
he  corrected  himself,  "that  I  would  make  these  people 
realise  what  a  hero  you  are.  Gleason  won't  open  his 
mouth.  He's  too  wise  for  that.  He  knows  that  he's 
licked.  I  dropped  in  to  see  him  this  morning,  and  tried 
to  get  some  statement  out  of  him.  All  he  did  was  to 
sidestep,  and  say  that  there  were  certain  iniquities  which 
God  must  deal  with  direct.  His  time  here  is  up  to- 
morrow, and  I  guess  he'll  be  glad  to  move  on  to  an- 
other town.  He's  made  his  little  pile,  anyway;  and 
that's  all  that  interests  him." 

He  looked  up  at  Bradshaw  with  a  touch  of  embar- 
rassment, and  smiled. 

"Where's  Bess?"  he  asked.    "May  I  see  her?" 

"Of  course,  you  may,"  the  older  man  said  pleasantly. 
He  started  to  ring  for  Otto. 

"Just  a  minute,  Mr.  Bradshaw,"  Bellamy  said. 
"There's  a  question  I  want  to  ask  you  first.  .  .  .  How 
do  you  feel  about  this  whole  Tenderloin  question?" 

The  other  frowned  and  thought  for  a  moment. 

"I  don't  know  exactly,"  he  answered,  after  a  slight 
pause.  "One  thing  is  sure,  however: — that  statement  I 
was  writing  for  your  paper  is  never  going  to  be  pub- 
lished. I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  this  is  a 
matter  which  can't  be  settled  as  simply  as  Gleason 
imagines." 

"Then  you  have  changed  your  mind  somewhat,  I  pre- 
sume," Bellamy  commented,  in  a  matter-of-fact  voice. 

"Yes,  you  might  say  that  I  have,"  Bradshaw  agreed. 

The  reporter  beamed. 

"Remember  your  promise,  Mr.  Bradshaw!"  he  ex- 
claimed. 

293 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

"What  promise?" 

"Don't  pretend  you've  forgotten  it,"  Bellamy  laughed. 
"That  wouldn't  be  fair.  You  remember  you  told  me 
that  if  you  changed  your  mind  on  this  subject,  you  would 
on  another  subject  as  well — about  Bess  and  me." 

Bradshaw  smiled  graciously. 

"You  know,  my  boy,"  he  said.  "I  am  a  man  of  my 
word.  .  .  .  And,  anyway,"  he  added,  "even  if  I  hadn't 
changed  my  mind  on  the  Tenderloin  question,  I'd  want 
you  for  a  son-in-law." 

He  sobered  immediately.  For  a  moment  he  had  for- 
gotten his  daughter's  running  away. 

"Bess  is  a  good  girl,"  he  said  soberly,  "in  spite  of 
what  she's  done.  I  think  she'll  be  worthy  of  you.  She 
loves  you,  too.  I  have  forgiven  her;  and  I  want  you 
to  know  how  deeply  I  appreciate — your  attitude.  I  am 
proud  of  you.  I  only  hope  my  own  son  will  always 
be  like  you.  .  .  .  Go  to  her  now,  my  boy.  I  was  about 
to  send  for  her ;  but  I  think  she's  in  the  living-room.  Go 
in  to  her,  yourself." 

Bellamy  found  Elizabeth  alone. 

"Are  you  happy?"  he  asked  her,  sitting  down  beside 
her. 

"Almost,"  the  girl  answered.  "Oh!  If  I  had  only 
not  gone  away!  .  .  .  But  father  was  so  good  and  kind 
to  me.  ...  I  am  going  to  try  so  hard  to  forget  what 
I  did." 

"And  I  am  going  to  help  you  to  forget  it,"  the  man 
answered,  taking  her  hand.  "I  have  just  had  a  talk  with 
your  father.  He  has  changed  his  mind  about  a  lot  of 
things — and  about  me.  He  sent  me  in  here  to  you  now. 
I  really  think  he  is  glad  that  I  love  you  the  way  I  do." 

The  girl  looked  away.  She  was  still  trying  to  fight 
294 


In  a  Mysterious  Way 

down  her  shame,  for  she  could  not  put  from  herself 
the  memory  of  her  disgrace. 

Bellamy  understood,  and  drew  her  to  him. 

"Listen,  Bess,"  he  began  earnestly,  "you  mustn't  be 
foolish  any  more.  You  were  only  a  child  when  you 
went  away,  and  no  one  in  the  world  could  blame  you 
for  doing  it.  We  are  going  to  put  it  out  of  our  lives. 
You  mustn't  ever  think  about  it,  and  you  mustn't  ever 
imagine  that  I  am  going  to  think  about  it.  If  any  one 
was  to  blame,  it  was  I  for  having  brought  him  here. 
I  didn't  know  what  a  beast  he  was — I  thought  I  could 
trust  him.  But  he  has  gone  now,  and  I  don't  think 
he'll  come  back.  You  must  let  the  memory  of  him 
go  out  of  your  life  just  as  he  has  gone  out  of  your 
life.  I  shall  be  very  good  to  you,  and  we  are  going 
to  be  happy.  In  a  very  little  while  we  shall  be  mar- 
ried. .  .  .  Now,  tell  me  that  you  are  happy." 

She  looked  up  at  him  and  tried  to  smile,  but,  despite 
her  efforts,  tears  forced  themselves  to  her  eyes. 

"I  am  happy,"  she  managed  to  say. 

He  drew  her  head  to  his  shoulder. 

"Then,  if  you  are  happy,"  the  man  whispered  in  her 
ear,  smiling  whimsically,  "you  mustn't  cry.  That's  no 
way  to  be  happy.  When  people  are  happy,  they  smile 
— just  as  I  am  smiling." 

She  raised  her  head,  and  touched  his  cheek  with  her 
lip.  Then  she  too  smiled  through  her  tears.  .  .  . 

The  next  evening  Paul  returned  to  Edenburg.  Elijah 
Bradshaw  met  him  at  the  door.  Putting  his  arm  around 
his  son,  he  led  him  into  the  library. 

"I  wired  you  that  I  had  forgiven  you,  my  boy,"  the 
older  man  said  gently,  "and  now  I  want  you  to  hear 
it  from  my  own  lips.  That  is  why  I  sent  for  you  to 

295 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

come  back.  I  want  you  to  start  all  over  again  here — with 
my  help.  And  whenever  anything  troubles  you,  I  want 
you  to  come  to  me  and  tell  me  all  about  it.  Things  will 
be  different  now — I  think  I'll  understand  you.  I  want 
your  confidence." 

"I  would  always  have  come  to  you,  father,"  the  young 

man  told  him,  "but  I  was  afraid  to.  You  were  always 
^^ » 

"Go  ahead  and  say  it,"  Elijah  Bradshaw  put  in  when 
the  other  hesitated.  "I  was  hard  and  unreasonable, 
wasn't  I  ?  .  .  .  Well,  I  am  not  going  to  be  that  way  any 
more." 

"And  Ruth?" 

"Do  you  love  her?"  his  father  asked  him. 

"I  love  her — very  much,"  the  young  man  said  simply. 
"And  you  would,  too,"  he  added,  "if  you  knew  her." 

"I  think  I  Know  her  better  now  than  I  did  before," 
the  older  man  said. 

"You  Tiave  met  her?" 

"No,  but  I  have  been  told  about  her." 

"You  mean  the  new  woman  here  in  the  house  told 
you?"  Paul  looked  at  his  father,  puzzled. 

The  other  nodded. 

"Who  is  this  woman,  father?"  the  son  asked.  "There's 
something  strange  about  her.  She  is  so  different  from 
any  of  the  other  servants." 

Bradshaw  did  not  answer.  He  put  his  hand  on  his 
son's  shoulder.  "Go  to  your  mother,  now,"  he  said.  "Be 
very  good  to  her.  She  has  been  ill.  Thank  God,  she  is 
better  now.  She  will  be  glad  to  see  you." 

The  young  man  turned  to  leave  the  room,  but  his 
mother  stood  in  the  doorway,  smiling  with  a  new  hap- 
piness. 

296 


In  a  Mysterious  Way 

"My  son!  My  son!"  she  cried,  gathering  him  in  her 
arms.  "I  was  afraid  you  weren't  coming  back." 

There  was  something  in  her  words  that  actualised 
Bradshaw's  suspicions  that  his  wife  had  not  believed 
him  when  he  had  explained  why  Paul  was  going  away. 

That  night,  after  dinner,  Bradshaw  sat  alone  in  his 
study.  Bellamy  had  come  to  the  house,  and  was  sit- 
ting with  Elizabeth  by  the  open  fire  in  the  living-room. 
Martha  Bradshaw  was  resting  in  her  room,  and  her  son 
sat  close  beside  her. 

Bradshaw  had  felt  the  need  of  being  alone,  and  had 
gone  to  his  study.  He  wanted  to  think  over  the  miracu- 
lous events  of  the  last  few  weeks.  A  great  peace  and 
contentment  had  entered  his  soul.  There  was  a  smile 
of  happiness  about  his  firm  lips. 

He  smoked  a  while  in  silence.  There  was  only  one 
dim  light  glowing  in  the  room. 

Some  one  entered  and  drew  near  to  him.  He  looked 
up,  and  there  stood  the  Woman.  She  wore  the  long 
cloak  in  which  she  had  first  appeared  to  him.  The  hood 
was  pulled  over  her  hair. 

Before  the  man  could  speak,  she  said:  "I  am  going 
now.  My  task  is  done." 

"You  are  going?"  He  became  suddenly  aware  of  his 
great  need  for  her.  "You  mustn't  go." 

"Yes,"  returned  the  Woman  quietly.  "I  must  leave 
you  now.  It  is  time.  Your  wife  has  recovered.  Your 
son  is  home  again.  Your  own  daughter  has  come  back 
to  you." 

"My  own  daughter!"  exclaimed  the  man.  "But  you, 
too,  are  my  daughter!" 

"No,"  said  the  Woman,  "I  am  not  your  daughter." 

Bradshaw  arose,  dumfoundtd. 

297 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

"You  are  not  my  daughter!" 

The  Woman  shook  her  head. 

"Then  you  deceived  me!" 

"I  never  told  you  I  was  your  daughter,"  she  replied. 
"You,  yourself,  said  it.  It  was  yoiv  conscience  that 
spoke." 

The  man  looked  at  her,  dazed. 

"I  don't — understand.  My  punishment  seems  greater 
than  I  deserved,  for  I  have  grown  to  love  you ;  and  now 
you  say  you  must  leave  me.  My  heart  goes  out  to  others 
who  suffer  as  I  have  suffered." 

"That  is  why  my  task  is  done,"  the  Woman  answered. 
"When  you  stood  there  last  night  and  spoke  His  words, 
I  knew  that  I  need  stay  no  longer." 

"But  I  want  you  to  stay,"  Bradshaw  persisted. 

"I  have  no  choice,"  the  other  returned,  moving  away 
from  him.  "I  only  obey.  I  have  my  work  to  do." 

"Stop!"  cried  Bradshaw.  "If  you  are  not  my  daugh- 
ter, who  are  you  ?  You  come  into  my  house  like  a  thief 
in  the  night,  and  you  bring  with  you  a  curse,  a  curse 
that  has  sent  me  through  Hell.  And  now  you  say  your 
work  is  done,  that  you  must  go.  ...  Tell  me,  why  did 
you  come  here?" 

The  Woman  looked  at  him  resolutely. 

"I  came  here  to  reach  your  heart  and  to  humble  your 
pride.  I  came  here,  not  to  teach  you  that  you  should 
condone  sin,  but  to  awaken  you  to  a  sense  of  your 
own  un worthiness  to  sit  in  judgment  on  your  fellow- 
creatures.  I  came  here  to  prove  to  you  that  our  mis- 
fortunes are  not  always  of  our  own  making." 

The  man  sank  back  in  his  chair. 

"And  you  have  taught  me  that  lesson  well,"  he  said. 

There  was  a  silence. 
298 


In  a  Mysterious  Way 

Then  Bradshaw  suddenly  drew  himself  up. 

"But  you  have  not  explained  to  me  who  you  are," 
he  said  sternly. 

He  arose  and,  going  to  the  Woman,  put  both  his  hands 
on  her  shoulders. 

"Before  you  go,"  he  commanded  her,  "before  you  pass 
that  door,  you  shall  tell  me  who  you  are." 

The  Woman  drew  herself  up  and  raised  her  head.  A 
divine  light  shone  in  her  eyes,  as  if  her  face  had  been 
illumined  by  some  supernatural  power. 

"Listen,"  she  said,  and  her  clear  voice  filled  the  room 
with  its  resonant  richness: 

"I  am  the  eternal  Magdalene,  made  immortal  by  the 
touch  of  His  hand,  two  thousand  years  ago.  When  they 
that  would  have  stoned  me  turned  sullenly  away,  He 
raised  me  up,  saying:  'Woman,  I  appoint  thee  My  mes- 
senger. Go  thou  down  the  centuries  and  bear  witness 
to  this  that  thou  hast  seen.  In  every  clime  and  in  every 
season  thou  wilt  find  those  who  have  sinned  as  thou 
has  sinned.  Stand  between  them  and  their  persecutors 
as  I  have  stood  between  thee  and  thine.  And  upbraid 
them  not,  for  are  they  not  all  children  of  the  same  Fa- 
ther? There  are  among  my  disciples  those  who  will 
preach  of  many  things,  but  to  you  I  entrust  this  text, 
"He  that  is  without  sin  among  you,  let  him  first  cast  a 
stone  at  her."  :  And  He  departed  and  I  stood  as  one 
transfixed,  gazing  after  Him.  And  my  brow  burned 
from  His  touch,  and  through  my  veins  flowed  blood  that 
had  been  cleansed  as  by  fire." 

When  she  had  finished  speaking,  Bradshaw  dropped 
down  in  a  chair  at  his  desk,  and  covered  his  face  with 
his  hands.  He  had  been  awed  by  the  vision  of  the 
Woman,  and  her  words  had  penetrated  to  the  innermost 

299 


The  Eternal  Magdalene 

depths  of  his  consciousness.  He  was  inspired  by  a  rev- 
erence which  he  had  never  before  felt.  He  had  hid  his 
face,  as  from  something  too  holy  to  be  desecrated  by 
mortal  eyes. 

After  a  time  he  took  his  hands  away,  and  glanced 
again  out  into  the  room. 

The  Woman  was  no  longer  there. 

He  sprang  to  his  feet  and  called  to  her,  but  no  one 
answered.  He  went  to  the  front  door  and,  opening 
it,  looked  into  the  cold,  starry  night. 

The  street  was  empty. 


THE  END 


300 


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